The Crucible
by Nocturnias
Summary: This isn't his London. His London is not in a world where women rule everything, and men are kept as breeders and playthings. And it certainly is not a London ruled by Molly Hooper. But here he is, chosen to be her new favorite slave in a world where he is expected to give in. He isn't going to give in. She isn't going to give up. AU Darkfic. Sherlolly.
1. The Immovable Object

A/N: WARNING. This is a work of Parallel Universe Dark!Dom!Molly fic. It is BDSM with heavy control/domination/submission overtones. It that is not of interest, please do not read this fic. It is 100% NSFW. I'm covering new ground in this fic. I hope it's enjoyable.

She enters the room softly, but he still knows she's there.

He opens his eyes, takes her in as she slowly makes her way over to him. The cool air on his skin is yet another reminder that he is naked. It has been eleven days since he wore clothes.

Her tiny feet are bare, the toenails painted crimson red. They match her nails, her lipstick, and the silk slip nightdress she wears. Her hair hangs in soft waves down her back. She wears no other makeup, no jewelry, no underwear. In his other life, he would've paid little attention to what she wore or how she looked, beyond the basic deductions for information. Here, everything she does or does not wear is a clue.

She stops a foot in front of him, looking at him with exasperation that borders on affection. But there is a darkness in her eyes as well; a reminder that despite her seeming gentleness, she is the one in control here.

As if he needed reminding. As if she didn't make that clear in some way every day.

She reaches out an index finger; her nail gently scrapes down the side of his face, his neck. She lingers at the pulse in his throat, checking it to see if he is reacting. She apparently doesn't like what she finds, because her hand slips down to a nipple, and she pinches it hard. He doesn't move, makes no sound even when she twists it between two fingers.

She takes her hand away abruptly and sighs. "Still defiant?" she asks, her voice amused and warm.

"And will continue to be," he tells her coolly.

She moves forward, closing the meager gap between them, and presses herself against him. He wants to push her away, but he's too well restrained. Chained and cuffed to the wall by the wrists, upper arms, waist, thighs, and feet, he is limited in how he can express his seething. He could spit on her, but doesn't want to. It's crude; too much of an emotional display. And he doesn't want another beating today like the one he had yesterday. So he turns his head.

She isn't deterred, just takes advantage of his turned head to plant a moist kiss on the side of his neck. He starts to turn his head again, but she grips a fistful of curls and holds tight against his scalp. He goes limp, refusing to give her the satisfaction of him struggling.

She continues with the kisses. "It doesn't have to be like this, you know," she murmurs. "You could be walking around up there. Have clothing. See your friend John Watson. I'd even let you do experiments. All you have to do is say that you're mine."

"I'll never be yours," he says icily.

She sighs. "Do you hate her?" she asks. "Is that why you don't want to give in to me?"

He knows who she's referring to. "No. She's my friend. And she's nothing like you," he adds spitefully.

Her lips tighten. "You can't accept it, can you? This reality. Well you're going to have to, if you don't want to be restrained or punished every day for the rest of your life."

He doesn't reply, doesn't look at her. She yanks his head by the hair, hard. "Look at me," she orders.

He obeys, putting as much contempt as he can into his glare.

"That life is lost to you," she tells him. "Even if they can cross over to here, they won't get far. They'll be captured, just like you were. And it may be weeks, months, or even years before they have the chance. Is this really what you want? To be chained up all the time like an animal?"

He doesn't reply. "I could sell you," she says softly.

He laughs. "You won't," he tells her. "You want me too much. The prospect of breaking me is too good to resist."

"I have dozens of slaves!" She snaps. "I could have dozens more if I wanted." She tugs his hair again, brings her lips an inch from his. "Why do I only want you?" she whispers, more to herself than to him.

"Because you enjoy wanting something that you'll never have," he replies.

"I could have you anytime I wanted," she snarls. "You may have a brilliant mind, but your body is still susceptible to drugs."

"That isn't what you want," he whispers. He moves his lips until they almost touch her ear. "You want me to come to you willingly," he whispers again. He moves his mouth even closer, feels her shiver. " . ," he hisses, pulling away.

She slaps him hard, her warm hand cracking against his cheekbone.

"Never say never, Sherlock," she tells him, trembling with arousal and anger.

He starts to speak, and she slaps him again. After four slaps he is breathing hard, staring at her with loathing in his eyes. She stares back, panting, before grabbing his hair even tighter than before.

"One day, Sherlock, you will be mine. And you'll hate it but you will do it."

"Take your best shot, _Molly_," he says, dripping venom into her name.

She releases him, then turns to a nearby guard. "Give him something to dull that pretty little mind of his," she orders. She looks back at him with a malicious smile. "Maybe keeping you drugged up for a while will soften you a bit."

He doesn't respond to her, but something uncoils in his chest. He hates being drugged; hates not having his mind clear. But he isn't going to capitulate over it. He'd rather give over to drugs than to her any day.

"I'll come back and see you tomorrow," she says airily. "We'll have some new fun then. Oh," she adds to the guard: "put some clamps and a ring on him when this wears off. Then give him some Blue Silver. I want him to be very aware of his decorations."

As she mounts the stairs he shouts: "You won't win! No matter what you do to me, you'll never have me!"

Molly laughs and blows him a kiss as she disappears from view.

The guard leaves, and he struggles again, futilely, with his restraints. She returns with an injection kit. She swabs the inside of an arm and ties it off. He starts to struggle and she slaps him, harder than Molly did, which says something.

"Fight me and you get a beating," she says.

He goes still. As his head swims, she injects him, then cleans the site off. She pats him on the head like a dog. "Good boy," she croons.

Sherlock feels his head slowly fill with fog. He slumps against the wall, wishing he could lie down. But that would mean begging, and he isn't going to do that. So he braces himself as best he can and lets his mind drift to a universe where Molly Hooper is his friend, where he is a consulting detective, and he is free and safe.

Eleven days.

It's been eleven days since the man who calls himself Sherlock Holmes came into her world through some sort of spatial gate, bringing with him questions and resistance and an inexplicable ache in her heart. From the first moment she laid eyes on him, trussed up on the floor of the council room, snarling angry muffled words into a gag, something had grabbed hold of her and refused to let go.

It was maddening. As ruler of London, she had a dozen or so men; playthings to be used to fill her needs. She wasn't always nice, but neither was she particularly cruel, unless they deserved it. But that rarely happened anymore.

When the plague had come, a little over 400 years ago, wiping out almost all men, targeting them for reasons no one could fully understand, women around the world had united. First to take care of the world. Then, for some, to change it. It was the perfect chance to set things right, to them; to undo all the harm that men had done to women through the previous ages. So once the plague had been cured, steps had been taken. Slowly at first, then everything spiraled. Supporters rallied and it spread. Men became breeders and playthings, never to be allowed to rise to their former positions as dominators, mass murderers, rapists, and abusers again. Births of male children were strictly controlled, and so were what men remained.

And it worked, this system. Women became stronger, physically and emotionally. They were more able to take care of themselves, now that they did not rely on men to do it. Oh, of course, some had protested over the years; but they were reminded the error of the old ways and that foolishness was eliminated. Either that, or the women themselves had been killed. Regrettable, but it would not do to allow a minority of dissenters to upset the balance.

So women ruled, and men were kept in brothels, or as household slaves, or in breeding centers. Women liked men; men simply had to be controlled. And so they were.

Molly had been ruling London for three years now, with her second in command Mary Morstan. Together they made sure everything proceeded smoothly. They collected taxes, handled public works projects, and swiftly dispatched any men who they learned were troublesome and could not be reconditioned. For Molly, it was a matter of science. If physical punishment didn't work, there were drugs. It was rare, between this combination, that a man had to be eliminated.

And then Sherlock Holmes entered and threatened to mess everything up.

Tolerant to drugs, refusing to yield after physical punishment, he'd been brought to the council to determine his fate. He'd been found on the streets and rounded up after a lengthy chase. They had finally had to use a tranq gun to take him down. His story was insane, but there were no records of him anywhere. There was a record of a Mycroft Holmes, who Sherlock claimed was his brother, but that man had been executed for attempting to organize a coup among the men at a breeding facility. Such a waste, that. Mycroft's I.Q. had been off the scale. Too bad for him that although he was smart, so was Irene Adler. Adler oversaw every breeding facility in London, and her skills and intelligence were second to none.

At first, Molly thought no more of it and had ordered he be placed in a brothel. Obviously he was simply lying, as medical exams had shown no trauma or disorders. But this Sherlock was belligerent, refusing to service any of the women that requested him. Beating him was unproductive, and it took more drugs than normal to get him to be docile. So she'd sent for this man, this upstart named Sherlock Holmes.

As soon as she saw him, something in her exploded.

He was, without question, the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. And Molly had seen, and owned, many a beautiful man. But he was something different. Even as he lay struggling and snarling, trying to push the blindfold off his eyes, she felt a sharp rush of desire unfurl in her belly. She walked down to him and turned him onto his back, then slipped the blindfold off.

His eyes widened as soon as he saw her, and through the gag she made out one muffled word: "Molly?"

She stared at him, then tore the gag off. "How do you know my name?" She demanded.

"You are Molly Hooper," he said. "You're my friend. Molly, what is going on here? Are you behind this enslaving of men?"

The more she talked to him, the more she was convinced he was telling the truth. A parallel universe… fuck. She'd have to put her best people on it. Meantime, other members of the council were clamoring for him to be reconditioned.

"He can't be redeemed," argued one. "I say eliminate him now."

Molly's breath caught. She quickly stood up. "I invoke my right as ruler to claim him," she said loudly. "He'll be one of my men."

Sound rippled across the room. Disbelief, concern, and yes, even some envy.

"You heard her," Sally Donovan ordered. "It's her right. Let her have the fun of taming this freak." When Sally spoke, no one argued. Her word was law, just like Molly's and Mary's.

Sherlock frowned at Molly. "What are you doing? I demand you release me at once!"

Molly smirked. "Demand, do you? In this universe, Sherlock Holmes, men don't make demands. They obey them. Haven't you figured that out yet?"

"Molly, you are making a big mistake," he said warningly, and she laughed.

She snapped her fingers and some of her guards came to her side. "Take him to my home," she instructed. "Prepare him for me for tonight."

"Molly-"

"And shut him up," she added, grinning as Sherlock was gagged again. "He talks too much."

The look in his eyes had been murderous, but there was nothing he could do as he was carried out. She looked forward to going home for the rest of the day.

Eleven days later, Molly almost regretted her decision. He hadn't responded the way she'd thought he would, and she didn't want to take him fully against his will. That was too close to the rapes of old that men committed. Yet despite his uncooperativeness, his bizarre stories about his world, his demands and his sneering deductions, she wanted him. He refused to talk about the other Molly, but she knew that there were things he wasn't saying.

Finally she'd had him drugged to get answers from him. It turned out this other Molly was a pathologist, and in love with him. How stupid. To be in love with such a horrible man. Oh, she wanted him, Molly did; but love him? She'd snorted. She'd love breaking him.

Breaking him was proving to be a challenge. But she'd never met a man she couldn't handle, and Sherlock Holmes was not going to be the first.

She chose two other slaves to take to her bed that night. Tomorrow, after he'd been drugged and gone all night with nipple clamps and a cock ring, she'd see if that had softened him any. If not, she wasn't worried. He'd see the error of his ways, one way or another. Taming Sherlock had just begun.

He doesn't like cold. Never has. He wears his Belstaff through early summer to ward off the chill in the air. Now he is chained under a vent, cool air constantly hitting his exposed skin. He'd probably mind it more if he wasn't drugged. But the sedative he's been given will wear off soon, and then he is apparently getting a bit of old-fashioned sexual torture.

He's dozed a bit, startling awake from snatches of dreams. Dreams of his universe, of Baker Street, of John and the work, and Mrs. Hudson. And yes, Molly; his Molly, not this cold, calculating woman who rules London and finds it perfectly acceptable to keep men as breeders and playthings. And who has added him to her personal harem.

Well. This Molly Hooper has another thing coming, if she thinks he is going to meekly be a notch on her bedpost. The men in this universe might all be conditioned to be subservient, but he damn well isn't. It is going to take a lot more than a sedative and a beating or two to wear Sherlock Holmes down.

As his head clears, he judges it to be around 3 a.m. His former guard went offshift earlier. The new one, a woman who fits the stereotypical description of an Amazon, comes over and peels back his eyelids, then checks his pulse. She nods in satisfaction.

"Looks like you're wide wake and ready for some stimulation," she says with a smirk. "I hear you like to be stimulated."

He gives her a tight, hateful smile. "How late did you stay awake to write that little comedic gem?" He asks, and is rewarded by half a dozen hard blows from a flogger.

"Nobody told you to speak, pretty boy," she snaps. "Shut it before I shut it for you."

Sherlock goes quiet, not liking the idea of being gagged for who knows how long. The guard is joined by a second guard, and he is released from his restraints to use the lavatory. He contemplates attacking them, but he has already deduced that they are nearly his equals in terms of strength, agility, and combat ability. And there are more of them in sight. They are unarmed; there are no weapons he could use to gain an advantage. He's seen the keycode on the door. He wouldn't have enough time to decode it before he was overwhelmed.

He is allowed to piss in private, not that he much cares. It's only the body; transport. Being watched while emptying his bladder wouldn't distress him. He's got bigger things to be concerned about. Still, he's grateful for those few minutes of solitude. No one is chained up in the room except him, but there are guards. And occasionally they like making snide comments to him, interrupting his train of thought. He's stopped telling them to stop, though. That's how he earned his beating the day before.

When he's escorted back to his place on the wall, the restraints once again secured on him, the same guard reaches down and grabs his cock with no warning. He tries to twist away from her, and she tightens her hold to the point where it hurts. He clenches his teeth.

"Don't you know better than to fight?" she asks, twisting his dick as she pulls. His breath hisses and he goes still. It's not worth risking damage to himself over. Her grip eases; her touch becomes gentle but firm. She knows exactly how to make him erect against his wishes, and despite his retreating into his mind, that is exactly what happens. She slides the shiny silver metal onto him, and he quivers from the coldness of it contacting his skin.

She removes two ornate nipple clamps from her pocket; silver scrollwork embedded with tiny sapphires. She pinches his nipples first; rolls them between her fingers until they, too, harden. She secures the clamps, then steps back to look at him. She shakes her head.

"I don't understand you. Do you know many men would love to be chosen by Lady Molly?"

"They can have her," he answers.

"You're only hurting yourself by fighting her. Eventually you'll give in."

"No," he says tightly. "I won't."

The guard shrugs. "Suit yourself. But it's stupid and you know it." She takes out an injection kit. He watches her as she prepares his arm. "What is Blue Silver?" he asks.

"Oh, you'll like it," she tells him as she injects him. "It's a stimulant."

A sexual stimulant, he realizes a few minutes later, as his body flushes somewhat. The clamps and ring seem to tighten further, even know he knows it is simply his skin becoming more sensitive. He no longer feels the chill of the vent. Instead, he is warm; uncomfortably so, because it is in all the wrong places. His already hyperaware mind cannot stop focusing on physical sensations; the cuffs, the chains, the bits of metal and leather that bind him and hold him captive.

"How long is this delightful experience going to last?" he asks through clenched teeth.

She shrugs. "A few hours. Maybe that will take you down a bit, hmm?"

"You lot would love to think so, wouldn't you?" he retorts.

The guard shrugs again. "Doesn't matter to me. I get paid whether you're good or not. But you can't be this stupid. You know she'll up the ante."

"I don't care," he answers insolently.

She cups his chin, tilts his head and studies him, amused. "You will."

She lets go of him. "I'll bring you some water later."

Sherlock watches her go. He sees them look at him; all his agile, muscular guards. Some have expressions of amusement, some disgust. At least two would like to touch him. But they won't; none of them will. He is considered to be Molly's property; anyone else who touches him could be fired, punished, even killed under the old code (thought that is rarely practiced anymore). He keeps quiet and listens. He needs to learn everything he can.

He shudders in his bonds, the drug making him slightly lightheaded and aching. His body wants release; he cannot deny it. If he were a lesser man, he might give in right about now. But he isn't, and he is determined not to give Molly that satisfaction no matter what. So he shivers, and sweats, and endures the ache of the arousal, and wonders when Mycroft will determine exactly what's happened and how he can get back home.

It is late evening when Molly goes downstairs to her home's discipline room. It's rarely needed to bring anyone here anymore for actual punishment. She usually uses it for fun with her slaves. But Sherlock has been here for 12 days now, and he's shown no signs of willingness to submit yet. He's been beaten, drugged, deprived of privacy and a certain amount of comfort, and endured mild sexual torment. And all he has done is glare at her, tight-lipped, and what little acquiescence he's offered is only because he is confined to a wall and can't effectively stop her from touching him.

He must be from another universe, she muses. No sane man would endure all this when he could have the life she's offered him.

"Hello, pet," she greets him, knowing that he hates being called that. Sure enough, he scowls at her. Molly's eyes drop to his erection, angry and red against his slightly sweaty skin. The clamps on his nipples suit him well; silver and sapphire blue, as cold as he seems to be.

And he's magnificent to look at; Molly thinks that only one man out of a hundred might be so fine a specimen. Her fingers twitch to touch him, but she restrains herself. It's time she tried something new with him, and the more she can throw him off guard, the better.

She stands in front of him and looks up into his eyes. "How are you feeling?" she asks.

Sherlock doesn't answer her, just stares. Molly slaps him, hard. "I asked you a question," she says, voice perfectly modulated. "When I speak to you, I expect you to respond right away. Otherwise there will be consequences. Understand?"

His jaw tightens, but he answers her. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" she asks. "You look a bit hot and bothered."

"So would you if you'd been drugged," he says.

Her mouth lifts in amusement. "That's your own fault."

"_My_ fault?" he echoes. "None of this has been with my consent! It is _not_ my fault whatsoever!"

"I suppose you'd see it that way," Molly replies thoughtfully. "Anyway, we're going upstairs now. Keeping you down here isn't having satisfactory results."

"So now I'm an experiment?" he asks.

She looks at him in surprise. "You've always been an experiment. You've the makings of a scientist, from what you've told me. You know how this works."

"Conditioning me, are you?" he asks bitingly. "Going to mix up some positive and negative reinforcement? Or are you just going to skip right to electroshock treatment?"

Molly laughs. He's a huge pain in the arse, but he's funny. And a challenge. "I don't favor anything that painful and crude," she tells him. "There are much better ways of getting you to come around."

"Oh? Should I be grateful that all you've done is abuse me so far? Beat me, drug me, chain me up?" he asks mockingly.

"Shut up," she growls, clamping a hand over his mouth. He subsides, but gives her a dirty look.

"Your little spoiled life from that other universe is over," she says. "I'm not your Molly Hooper; stupidly in love with you. I am in control here, not you. And it's time you learned that. Now one more insolent word out of you and I'll have a bit and harness put on you and prance you around like a stud horse. Understood?"

He nods slowly, never stopping his glare. She removes her hand. "Bring me some leashes," she tells a guard, "and some cuffs. I'm taking him upstairs."

"What's upstairs?"

Molly breathes softly into his ear, her voice carrying an undercurrent of delight and warning. "You'll see."

It turns out that the leashes are to attach to his nipple clamps, so she can pull him by the nipples. He's released from the wall, hands cuffed behind his back, and cuffs put on his ankles so that he can walk but not run or kick. She leaves the cock ring on him as well, wanting him to be as distracted by the physical as possible. He stays entirely too much in that head of his, and that's part of the problem. She's going to have to take some of that control away from him if she ever wants him to wave the white flag.

Once he's ready, she winds the leashes around one hand and gives a sharp tug. He's pulled forward and a small gasp escapes him. She looks at him curiously. He seems surprised by his own body's responses sometimes, which makes her wonder exactly how experienced he is. She decides to find that out this very night.

She leads him upstairs, down a hallway, around a corner. A few turns and twists later and she's entering a code into a door. "I hope you're smart enough to realize these codes change each time, from a predetermined list," she says wryly.

"Of course," he says smoothly.

She pulls him into the room, and his eyes start roaming immediately, deducing and cataloging. Her bedroom. King size bed, wrought iron headboard and footboard, ideal for restraints. Speaking of those, there are three sets attached to the bed; one at the top, one at the bottom, and one about 2 1/2 feet down. Plush carpeting, she likes it warm and cozy. Is also probably on the floor at times with a slave. Cherry antique wooden furniture mixed with more wrought iron. Two doors, one leading off to the loo, and the other is closed. A section of the ceiling at the foot of the bed retracts; obviously to lower some sort of bondage equipment. She actually lives in this bedroom; it's not strictly for show or just for sexual encounters.

She tugs him to the bed. "Lie down," she orders.

It's awkward with his hands cuffed behind him, but he does, his hands pressing into his buttocks as he lies back against the headboard. She pulls the restraints from the sides of the bed, turns him over a bit, cuffs him into them, then removes his other cuffs and pushes him flat on his back. She removes the nipple clamps, then pushes his thighs apart, spreading him, but decides not to add the ankle cuffs. She wants to see how much self-control he has. "Keep your legs open, or you'll be sorry," she warns.

He considers closing them out of spite, but he's not eager to provoke her too much yet. He's curious as to what she's planning.

She stretches out beside him on the bed, turned to face him. He keeps his face forward, carved from stone. Her eyes drift over him. Pale, muscular but not overly so, his chest and shoulders are marked here and there with faint silvery scars. She touches each in turn, examining it, turning over probable causes in her mind. Some look like stab wounds; others are unmistakably from a bullet.

A consulting detective, he'd called himself. Mysteries fascinate him; the thrill of solving something unexplained. It's a trait she shares with him, actually. Before this, she'd been a liaison and agent for the Queen of the UK. She was good at it, and she was good at controlling London with the help of Mary and Sally. In fact, John had been a gift from Molly to Mary when she'd chosen Mary as her First in Command.

In Sherlock's reality, John is Dr. John Watson, his flatmate and best friend. She still remembers the look of shock on Sherlock's face when he'd seen Mary leading John around on a leash outside the council. The fact that John had not known who he was had broken his heart, even though he'd never admit it. But Molly had seen the look, before he closed himself off again. She'd filed that information away for future use.

She continues touching him, clinically, then not so clinically, testing his skin's sensitivity and pliancy. She licks him in random spots, blows cool air on him, sinks her nails into him. He's very good at controlling his reactions, she muses. Of course, he can easily anticipate what she's about to do. One more experiment and she'll up the ante for him.


	2. The Games Continue

Warning: This chapter deals with sexual toys being used on/in Sherlock. Mild violence.

The Berkley Horse is a real sexual device, created by Theresa Berkley in the 1800s.

She removes the ring, and he shudders with the effort not to react. He doesn't come; softens but stays partially erect. Interesting. She gathers his cock and bollocks in her hands, moving down closer to his groin. She begins a thorough examination of him, squeezing and studying. She lifts his balls, stroking, lightly ticking the underside with a fingertip. He remains nearly motionless, though his body begins to respond to the stimulation. She can see how much he tries to control his reaction and once again is amused and exasperated.

"I'm not going to stop until you're hard," Molly tells him. "You know that. Why fight it?"

"Because you'd win," he answers, still not looking at her.

She doesn't bother telling him that eventually she'll win anyway. He has become her living puzzle, and she is not going to stop until she's found the key to unlocking him. Instead she gets go of him and gets up, moving to her dresser.

He turns to look at her now, his curiosity getting the better of him. She removes a padded black silk blindfold and walks back over to him. His eyes narrow a fraction as he sees it. She doesn't have to be a consulting detective to know that he'll hate it; hate being deprived of his primary method of deduction. That's why he rubbed his face raw on the council floor; he was trying to get the blindfold off. He'd cared more about not being able to see than he had about being bound and gagged.

She holds it in her fingers and studies him before moving to slip it in place. His jaw clenches again, but he is quiet. She strokes his throat, enjoying the way his pulse leaps like a startled animal. Then she stands up and is completely silent, just looking at him. Beautiful. With the blindfold he seems more vulnerable, less sure of himself. Exactly what she wants.

She resumes stroking him, her skilled hands patiently drawing out the response she wants. Once she gets his dick hard, she lets it be, enjoying the slight flush on his pale cheeks. She transfers her attention to the rest of him, caressing his inner arms and thighs, lightly touching the soles of his feet, enjoying the way he quivers, ever so slightly, each time she shifts focus.

He is silent as she touches him, the only sounds in the room the soft background hum of the air vent and their quiet breathing. She's never encountered such stubbornness before. Either he doesn't understand that it arouses her, or he doesn't care. She suspects it is the latter. Which is a shame for him, since he should also know it means she's not going to relent any easier than he is.

"Have you been touched like this before?" she asks.

"You mean against my will, as a precursor to rape?" he answers.

"I told you, I'm not going to force you," she says.

"You already are," he says.

"Answer my question," she says, ignoring the jibe and squeezing his bollocks.

He winces slightly. "No."

Slowly she releases her grip. "You mean you're…"

"Yes," he says, voice devoid of any inflection. He could have been announcing the weather.

She reaches up and strokes his chest, watching him squirm slightly as she hits a sensitive spot near his navel. "Why?"

"It is incompatible with my work," he says simply.

Molly shakes her head. "Crazy."

He knows what she wants. He knows precisely what is driving her. Lust. Control. The need to keep order in her life; to make him yield. He's her unwilling slave, and it maddens her. Yet she's stopping just short of taking him. He doesn't delude himself; it isn't out of affection, and morality only plays a small part in it. No, she isn't forcing him because she wants him to offer; to give in to her. She craves his submission the way an addict craves a drug. It's a feeling he knows well.

What worries him is how far she's willing to go to get it. She's been fairly lenient with him so far, he suspects. Of course, she also didn't know just how stubborn he is. He is quite aware that most men would have given over by now. It's even a fantasy for some, from what he understands; being an object of sexual desire for a group of women. Those men would enjoy a fate like this, or at least make the best of it.

John would understand; well, his friend John. The John Watson in this world seems quite happy to belong to Mary Morstan. The only restraint he'd worn was the collar and leash. He'd followed where Mary led docilely, with no hidden urge to flee or resist. Mary had kissed him even, and he'd responded to it. But while she obviously had some measure of genuine affection for him, he was still her pet.

Contentment or happiness in slavery didn't make it any less of an enslavement.

He contemplates pretending; letting it seem as though she is gradually wearing him down. He could play the role; slowly seem to respond to her, first against his will, then let her think his defenses have crumbled at her feet. Be her obedient little favorite slave, gain her trust, then escape. But where would he go even if he got away? Mycroft is dead in this universe, John is a plaything, he doesn't even know where Lestrade is or if he exists. If he does, he certainly isn't in charge of the Yard because the Yard doesn't exist. And men aren't in charge of anything.

He'd be on his own, and though he's been on his own before, that was in familiar territory. If he escapes in this world, Molly will have him hunted and brought back. Of that, he has no doubt. Men do not wander about freely here. He'd need a disguise; need to dress up as a woman. That doesn't bother him. He's worn disguises before.

It's a risky plan, dangerous and full of loopholes. But it's an option, and he doesn't have many of those right now. So he keeps it in the back of his head to anchor him while Molly continues roaming her hands over him. She made him erect; only so much even he can do about that when he's receiving direct stimulation. Now that she knows he's a virgin, she'll want him more than ever, he thinks. His ears prick up; she's talking again.

"Last chance tonight, Sherlock. Agree to be mine and all this will stop. I'll give you the best life you could ask for here."

"No," he answers through tight lips.

Molly sighs. "Then I'm going to get creative."

"I told you; take your best shot," he replies.

She grins. What a silly thing he is, all but daring her. "Would you like to make a bargain before we begin?" she asks, running her fingertips gently under his eyes. He turns, tracking her movements by touch.

"What sort of bargain?" he asks.

"I'll take the blindfold off. But I want something in exchange."

"And what would that be?"

"A kiss."

"You can kiss me anytime you want. I can't stop you. Ah, but you want me to acquiesce to it," he smirks. He's silent for a moment, considering. "I despise being blindfolded even more than the prospect of you kissing me," he says finally. "So yes. You have your bargain."

She grins. It's a small victory, but she'll take it. After all, small victories can lead to bigger ones. She reaches behind him and unfastens the blindfold. He blinks, adjusting his eyes to the light again as she puts it aside. She leans over him, running a fingernail around the outline of his mouth. God, that mouth drives her insane. She wants to bite it, suck on it, devour it until his lips are swollen and sore.

She lowers herself down, one hand on the sheet beside him, the other tilting his face up. She shivers slightly as her lips touch his.

He's perfectly still beneath her. She presses her tongue against his mouth, and his lips part against its insistence, letting her tongue slide in. The entire time she kisses him, he is the perfect model of submission. He doesn't resist, just lays there, breathing quietly while she explores the inside of his mouth. And it isn't that she doesn't try to coax a response from him. She gives him her best kiss, to no avail. There is not a flicker of reaction. She might as well be kissing a dishrag.

She breaks away, sits up and looks at him. He gazes back at her calmly, the faintest bit of spiteful amusement in his eyes. _See?_ He seems to say. _I did exactly what you wanted._ And he did; he was picture perfect in his compliance. But that's all it had been. Well, nothing worth having was easy, as the saying went…

"You're disappointed," Sherlock says. "Did you think you'd kiss me and I'd turn into a schoolboy? Forget what you're doing and give over?"

"No," Molly says.

"Good."

She gets up and walks over to the dresser again. She knows he's watching her. She removes a black cardboard box and carries it back over to him, sitting beside him on the bed near his thighs. His eyes flick over the box, trying to deduce what's inside.

She keeps him in suspense for a few more seconds, then slowly tugs off the lid. She holds the object up for him to see, enjoying the mild look of surprise on his face.

"Is that for me, or for you?" he asks.

"You."

"Oh."

"It will be easier for you if you relax," she tells him, opening a drawer in the nightstand near the bed and withdrawing a bottle of lubricant.

"As I recall, men have been telling women for centuries to just _relax_," he says, eyes narrowed into slits.

"Not in this world," Molly replies. She pours lube onto two fingers and rubs it in a bit. "Of course, men in this world are quite happy to accommodate without being forced."

"How do you know? Have you taken a poll recently?" Sherlock asks.

She reaches down and slowly slips half a finger inside him, watching as he winces and gasps, feeling him tighten. "Push out with your muscles," she tells him. "It'll be easier on you."

He's never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. He's never had to pay so much attention to his body in his life. The word _stop_ gathers shape in his head, but he can't make himself let it travel to his lips. She slides the rest of the finger in, easing it past the resistant ring of muscle, the task made easier by the lubricant. The invading digit moves up until it finds what it seeks, the soft spongy mass of his prostate gland, and begins an insidious caress.

It isn't fair, her ruthless knowledge of anatomy. His body turns traitor and refuses to obey his commands, choosing to find pleasure in her probing touch. He won't admit it, though. That admission would be the first step into a descent where she coaxed and coerced him into saying that yes, he is hers. He belongs to no one, and certainly not to this Molly, who for all her care about it is violating him.

_Transport, only transport._

He feels a second finger touch him. They both slip and rotate, moving slowly, steadily upward. He breathes deeply, directing his muscles to relax. There's no point in struggling and making it worse, but that's all she's going to get.

When she's satisfied that he's as ready physically as he can be, she slips her fingers out of him and goes to wash her hands. While she is gone, he looks over at what she has in store for him. It's small, but seems impossibly big as he contemplates it going inside him. It will be a distraction. Right now he isn't sure if he welcomes or loathes that.

Molly returns with a smile. It's the same sort of bright, happy smile his Molly wears when she sees him enter the morgue. But unlike his Molly, it isn't because she's pleased to see him. It's because she's going to make him gasp, make him squirm. She's a scientist who's fond of her lab animal, he thinks, with that look. It's fine. He can handle this.

She casually turns the vibrator on, and Sherlock's eyes widen. How can something so small be so loud? And…vibrate so much? He knows the mechanics. He's just never thought about them, and it's surprising how powerful it seems to be.

"Deep breath and relax," Molly murmurs to him as she slicks the device up with lubricant, and he feels it positioned against his arse for just a moment before she starts sliding it in.

Nothing could've prepared him for this. Not the lube, not a film, nothing. Small though it is, it seems to fill him to the brim; hitting his prostate over and over and making him wriggle in a mixture of treacherous pleasure and aversion.

How do ordinary people stand this? He's not going to let it continue. She can beat him if she likes, but he is not letting this…this _thing,_ stay inside him.

He is in the middle of taking a deep breath, preparing to bear down to expel her toy, when he feels her slipping something over him and inside him, just barely, something smooth and made of rubber, that seems to be…

"No!" the word rushes out of his mouth before he can stop it. But it's too late; she has placed a plug there, obviously anticipating that he would do exactly what he'd been about to do. She fastens it around him, then steps back to admire her handiwork.

He knows his face is flushed, but he can't stop it. The sensations are almost too much; he flounders for a few seconds until he gets himself under some semblance of control. It's still unbelievably disturbing. He fleetingly wishes that he was not inexperienced in matters of the flesh; maybe he'd be better equipped to handle this. As it is, he has no choice but to endure it. Well, no choice he'll make.

"What a sight you are," she says, with a giggle that makes his blood boil. "That should keep you occupied for a bit."

"Are you going to leave me like this all night?" he asks.

"No. But for now I'll enjoy watching you squirm."

She gets a book from a nearby shelf and settles into an oversized armchair near the bed. She starts reading, glancing at him every few minutes. After half an hour she brings him some water and supports him while he drinks, making it very clear he can add a sound beating to the vibrator and plug if he's disobedient.

He drinks it without resisting. He's not ready to add additional stimulation onto this experience. Afterwards, she goes back to her book, and Sherlock goes back to cursing his curiosity, the gate he'd stumbled upon under the old ruins, this universe he is trapped in, and this ruthless, dominating version of Molly most of all.

It's maddening. Or it would be, if he hadn't have retreated as far into his Mind Palace as he can go. As it is, the infernal device is still there, hovering on the edges of his awareness. If there was any stimulus-based pleasure to be had in it, that has disappeared long ago. Now it's tiresome and dull but he can't quite shake free of it. The best he can do is keep it running in the background. So far that has been enough.

Two hours after his first drink, she moves back over to him and gives him more water. Then she seems to be debating something. Evidently she makes her decision, because she unbuckles his plug and removes it from him, then removes the vibrator and turns it off.

"How did that feel?" Molly asks, her tone curious. "I've never left one in a man for that long before."

"Like I was being shaken not stirred," he answers, and she laughs. _Laughs._

She falls silent, contemplating something.

"I think it's time you addressed me properly," she says thoughtfully after a few minutes. "I've allowed your impertinence for too long."

"And what would you like me to call you? Mistress?" he asks with a scowl.

The slap is swift and hard. It leaves a warm print on his cheek.

"Impertinence," she says. "And no. You will address me as Domina."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "You do not own me."

This comment earns him six slaps, each harder than the first. One on each cheek, one on each nipple, one on his cock, and one on his bollocks. He hisses in pain at the last one.

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law, pet. Now. I'll make this simple. Every time you don't address me as told, something will happen to you. And I promise you, it will be something that you do not like. And each one will be worse than the one before. So think about that before you speak."

He seems to be debating it with himself. After a moment he nods. "Very well…_Domina_."

"Good. Now. It's clear to me that you're used to living in that massive head of yours. You've put a lot of effort and discipline into emotional and physical control. And while I admire it, it's preventing you from giving over. So I'm going to have to change that."

"Oh? What now? Another vibrator? More drugs?"

She reaches down and pinches a nipple hard enough to make him gasp. "Quiet," she murmurs. "I'm thinking."

She keeps hold of his nipple, rubbing it absently and flicking her fingernail across it while she ponders what to do with this maddening man. He doesn't say anything else, watching and waiting with those cool, sharp eyes. Are they blue, or green? She wonders. They seem to change constantly.

When she decides, Molly grins. She presses the intercom button on the wall. "Laura, send up some escorts for my pet. Take him to the Green Room."

There is a beat of silence. Then the woman named Laura asks: "The _Green Room_, Lady?"

"Yes. Prepare him in the fourth position. I'll be down shortly to take it from there."

"Yes, Lady."

"Why do I think that this Green Room and fourth position aren't anything good?" Sherlock asks. He seems to be addressing the ceiling instead of her.

"They're _very_ good," she replies. "I'll see you soon."

"I'll be counting the minutes, _Domina_."

Molly runs her fingers through his hair and lightly bites an earlobe before she leaves the room.

The Green Room is not aptly named. It isn't green. Of course, there's obviously another meaning to this designation. Some code he isn't privy to. In the larger scheme, it isn't that important.

What is important is that this room looks like it belongs on a film set. A pornography film set. Dim lighting from a chandelier, a table covered with various sexual toys and fetish items, marble tile on the floors. There is no scent in the air and the room is a surprisingly ambient temperature. But it's the device in the middle of the room that gives him pause.

It's a mechanized table, rectangular shaped, resting at a 110 degree angle. It is lightly padded with white leather across the entire surface and has three cut out areas. One is close to the top, circular, and padded around the hole. It resembles a massage table where the person being massaged would rest their head and look down at the floor below. The second is where the stomach and lower back would be. The third falls roughly where a person's buttocks would be, leaving both their arse and genitals exposed. At the bottom, there is a padded platform and two small cutouts, about a foot apart, obviously for resting the feet while leaving the tops of the feet and the toes exposed.

Eight metal rings are secured in the table; one on each side of the first two sets of holes, two in the area where the wrists would be, and down at the bottom near the footholes. The angle of the table can be adjusted to anything from 90 to 180 degrees, likely with the touch of the black button on the side. He remembers Molly saying "the fourth position" and wonders what that means.

He is strapped to the table in short order, and his deductions were correct. His head, lower back, and backside are all exposed thanks to the holes, while the front of him is in full display. His bindings are done in an X pattern, starting at the sides of his head and sloping down to cross his chest. His wrists are secured, and finally a strap is pulled taut across the tops of his feet near his ankles. He tugs at his bonds, finds them too secure for him to free himself by force, and leans back, staring at his guards.

"What's the fourth position?" he asks.

"This," one replies, pressing the button.

The table slides into a 115 degree angle. With Molly's height, it will be easy for her to stand behind the table in this position, and do as she likes to the exposed areas. While he loathes his current state, he does have to admire the efficiency of the device.

The woman ruffles his hair and smirks as he scowls. "She'll be here soon. Get some rest. You'll need it."

"No doubt," he mutters, watching them go.

He is left alone to contemplate his predicament. Of course he won't sleep; he's too wound up, knowing she will arrive soon, and trying to deduce what she has planned for him from the contents of the nearby table. Clamps, cock rings, a riding crop, a bullwhip, vibrators in assorted sizes, jars of massage oil and lubricant, a medicine bottle that he suspects holds either sildenafil citrate or some other sort of stimulant. There are also more plain black cardboard boxes, a bowl of fruit, jars of hot fudge and caramel, a carafe of water, and a bottle of wine with two wineglasses. An ice bucket filled with small ice cubes, the metal tongs resting on the edge.

Sherlock absorbs it all in a few seconds, then turns away from it. He doesn't want to think about whatever is going to happen. He goes into his mind palace, into the library, and accesses the dullest book he can think of: world rainfall measurements for the past 5 years and the effect on crops.

He's halfway finished with Africa when he hears her say: "It's called a Berkley Horse."

He turns to look at her, disconcerted that she managed to slip in without him hearing her. She is very stealthy, this Molly. Not that the other Molly is especially noisy, but…

Molly. It's difficult for him to look at this woman, who is Molly but is not Molly, and not think about the one that he knows, who is probably fretting along with John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft. He wonders what Mycroft is doing. Has he retraced Sherlock's footsteps yet? Surely he has. For all he knows, his brother is out there with half of MI5 or the CIA trying to locate him. But surely if they'd been spotted or captured, he'd know. Molly would waste no time telling him. Too many unknown variables. He'll simply have to wait and endure.

She's dressed differently. She's wearing a dark green nightdress, sheer with lace trim, and nothing else. It leaves little to the imagination. He quickly lifts his gaze from the tangled nest of curls between her thighs and the dusky buds of her nipples. Her hair is loose and hanging down her back. Instead of being barefoot, she's wearing black leather shoes with two inch stiletto heels. Her face is devoid of makeup, even the lipstick she wore the day before. She'd be the perfect picture of innocence, were it not for her clothes, her shoes, and the content of the room.

"Quite clever in design, isn't it?" Molly continues, moving down to stand beside him. "All the right areas exposed for pleasure." She scrapes a fingernail lightly down his chest, below the straps, down to his pubic hair. She stops just short of touching his cock, which threatens to stir to life from her touch of her nail on his skin. She scratches her way back up, this time sliding up his neck and chin, hooking her finger on his lower lip and tugging until he opens his mouth.

She firmly rubs her finger along his mouth, then slips it inside, her stare making it clear to him that something terrible will happen if he bites. Somehow, despite what she's done to him, what she will do, he can't bring himself to harm her. It's stupid, she's not his Molly. But she _is_ Molly, at the same time, and that is why he doesn't try to sever her finger off her hand. That and the fact that something truly horrible would be done to him in turn. Even he has limits.

She withdraws the finger and moves to the table. "So. You _can_ control that temper of yours," she says thoughtfully. "Good to know."

"What are you going to do to me now?" He asks in exasperation. "Haven't you conducted enough research yet?"

Her lips curve up in a soft amused smile. "Oh, pet. The research has only just begun."

She moves back to the table and opens one of the boxes. She sits it on a small rolling table near the Horse, pushing it over closer. He still can't see what's inside, but she knows he's curious and is happy to oblige him.

She pulls out two small pieces of curved metal, holding them up for him to inspect. The bottom of each side is designed to hold a small bolt to fit them together. Simple setup, it can quickly be put together, and just as easily taken apart with an allen wrench. It's ½ an inch thick and 1 3/4 inches wide. If it were assembled, it would be the perfect size for…

Oh.

Molly sets it down on the table with a faint metallic thud. She slides over to him, taking his cock in her hands, stroking him slowly, lightly. "I see you deduced what it is," she says.

"Clever design. Constricting while adding weight to increase awareness and supposedly lengthening."

"It's the awareness I'm interested in. I've no desire to alter you physically in any permanent fashion."

"Small mercies," he mutters.

She continues stroking him. Sherlock sighs. He doesn't try to stop it; lets her make him hard. The sooner this is over with, the sooner she might realize she won't get what she wants with sexual arousal and persuasion.

It occurs to him that perhaps she _does_ know this; that she is simply enjoying what she's doing, whether or not she thinks it will get him to yield. It's possible; those who like to dominate and control love the act for its own sake. But if this Molly is anything like his Molly, and he knows she is, hope springs eternal in that ridiculously optimistic heart of hers.

He is jolted from his musings by the feeling of cold metal. She's placed the pieces around him (when did he become fully erect?) and is carefully bolting it together. It is heavy against him: not unbearably so, but enough to make him very aware of the presence of the weight, and how sensitive his cock will be with the trapped erection. When she finishes, she glances at him, the look in her eyes more clinical than lustful.

"I used the lowest weight on you," she tells him as she examines his imprisoned cock. "I didn't want to overwhelm you too early with stimulation. It's better to build it up."

Oh, yes. She knows exactly what she's doing. She's had years of practice. He's intrigued for a moment as to whether or not she truly is capable of changing his mind, but dismisses the thought. It's an interesting mental exercise, but it won't change anything. She'll stop short of doing serious harm to him as long as he's compliant with the small demands, and no persuasion, no matter how stimulating it might be, will affect that.

When she pulls out an injection kit, he finds that his conviction is no longer quite so convinced.

"Let's give you a little something to relax you, hmm?" Molly says absently as she cleans the injection site.

"I would be very relaxed if you'd let me go," Sherlock replies.

"And what would you do if I did?" she asks, inspecting the syringe carefully before plunging it into the vial and filling it. "You can't go back the way you got here, you know that."

"Why not?" He asks.

She stares at him. "You really don't know?"

"Tell me!" He snaps, adding "please" when she frowns.

"The place where you came from. The gate. It's gone."

He pales. "What do you mean, gone?"

"Gone. As in, not there."

Sherlock nearly swore. "How long ago?"

"From our estimation, it closed within two hours of your entrance here. There was nothing there when we investigated. Barely any residual energy that we could detect, and even that's gone now. And who knows how long it takes to reactivate it. With no matching gate on this side, there's not much to do right now except research."

Sherlock releases the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"So who knows how long you'll be here. And even if I wanted to let you go, which I don't, how do you think you'd manage in this world? This is more than a one country matriarchy, Sherlock. The entire world changed after that plague. No one wants to go back to the ancient ways where women were abused, raped, tortured and murdered for men's pleasure."

She clamps a hand down on his mouth before he can argue. "The point is, there are only so many roles for men here. I'm giving you a chance for one of the best. You should accept it."

"But I know you don't want to," she continues, ignoring the way he narrows his eyes. "And so we're back where we started. The games continue. You can either not argue or I can gag you. Your choice."

She removes her hand and stares at him. He's silent, though the look he gave her speaks volumes. She continues her task of injecting him. "What is it?" he asks as she presses the needle to his skin.

"An empathogenic drug. Medical level dose, not street use. Just enough to mellow you and enhance the sensory aspects."

"You're giving me Ecstasy?" His laugh is brief and dark.

"We don't have a drug called Ecstasy. The street name for this is Rapture."

"Same difference."

After she injects him and disposes of the equipment, she just stands looking at him.

"Going to wait for it to kick in?" He asks.

"No. Just admiring your body. You don't care about it, except for what you needed to do for your work. You've neglected it, denied it. That fascinates me. You're rather like a monk. A rude, cruel, overbearing monk, mind, but still."

She moves to the table and picks up a flogger. "Shall we begin?" she asks, her look making it clear what his response had better be.

"Yes, Domina."


	3. Victory and Defeat

A/N: this is dedicated to 4May. Thanks to everyone for reading!

He's seen some rough spots before, with the work. He's been shot, shot at, punched, kicked, fought in hand-to-hand combat, whipped with a riding crop a few times, stabbed, cut, strangled. He's no stranger to pain, violence, or adrenaline.

But he's never been flogged while strapped to a Berkley Horse, wearing a weighted cock ring. He'd cross it off his list, if he'd had it on a list to start with. He suspects he'll have to make a new list in the new file he's made for his time here.

He's also never been stimulated physically, sexually, like this. Let alone while under the effects of an empathogenic drug. It will be interesting to see the results. That's how he's going to look at it, anyway, because he refuses to look at it as anything else. It's an experiment; she said so herself. Just because he's the subject doesn't mean he can't quantify the data. It just means he'll have to put in some effort to stay objective.

Rational thought flees for a few seconds when he feels the first sting of the flogger. She started with his hip: not his buttocks or back. It's an interesting choice and he's not sure what to make of it. Of course, that could well be her game; to make him try to deduce it. The next blow lands on his chest, just below his left nipple. She's not hitting him in a pattern. It's more important to her to keep him off-balance than to give him a systematic workover.

She also isn't hitting him as hard as she could be. Saving her strength? Unlikely. She's simply priming him; killing time until the drug kicks in. What will her next move be once it does?

Her one deviation to her randomness is that she gives five lashes to the bottom of each foot. Oddly, this is the most painful location for her strikes. But then, that's probably why she delivers multiple hits there. Getting his attention. And she succeeds. He looks at her; her face somber, completely focused on the task. She's clearly getting no sexual pleasure out of it. Molly flogging him is only an attempt at a means to an end.

She continues her random assortment of blows until his body is a pale pink. Then she tosses the flogger back onto the table, grasps a handful of his hair, and tugs his head down a bit so it's easier to look into his eyes. He wonders what will happen if one day she's no longer fascinated by him. It's unlikely; he is, after all, quite fascinating. But the possibility does exist. Will she give him to a breeding facility? Sell him off? As she keeps reminding him, there are limited roles in this world for men.

Molly watches him as he thinks. He's magnetizing when he looks like this, eyes wide and the slight hint of lines in his forehead. She's learned that she needs to be as unpredictable as possible with him. He doesn't like it; it throws him off balance. Plus it keeps him interested. Although, it really is time she reduces him to a moaning mess. The Rapture will kick in soon and he'll start to feel euphoric, relaxed, dazed, and energized. The flogging was mild, an appetizer. Now it's almost time for the main course.

She spends the interlude touching him, stroking him with steady, precise movements. From his feet to his hair. She memorizes the texture of his skin, every spot, every quiver and involuntary contraction of muscle. She knows when the drug has kicked in. An almost imperceptible sigh escapes him and his body relaxes ever so slightly. Even drugged he tries to give nothing away.

"Do you like the way this feels?" Molly whispers to him, slowly trailing a hand down his chest to his cock. "I think you do," she adds, as he grits his teeth. "I think you like me stroking your dick."

He blinks. It's the first time she's used a dirty word in front of him. Profanity, yes; her fair share of it and a few other people's as well. But not a crude sexual word. No doubt testing to see if it will add anything.

"My body is reacting to a stimulus. That's hardly an indication of desire," he tells her, trying and failing to stop the response. But even without the drugs he'd be hard pressed to override manual manipulation. Everything in his body screams at the bliss of the contact, the drug-induced euphoria. He's never taken an empathogenic before; only cocaine, nicotine, alcohol, and morphine. And under the influence of the Rapture, he wants more, _needs_ more stimulation.

She smiles as though she knows this. "But you do like it. Your body does. I can feel it coming to life."

As if to prove her point, he becomes even more erect, impossibly erect. It's the sweetest sort of pleasure and pain, and nothing he wants. But he knows that you can't always control how your body responds. The weight around his cock alone makes him all too aware of it; her hand fondling him in addition to that is torment.

"What would you like me to do to you?" Molly asks. "Do you want me to wank you? Suck you off? Would you like to put that big cock in my cunt?"

He's silent, breathing uneven and almost a pant as she uses her other hand to run a thumb repeatedly over his nipple, flicking her nail across it. "Tell me, Sherlock."

"No," he says, then moans as she intensifies her efforts.

"You're a bad liar," she whispers in his ear. She brings her lips to his neck, traces the cords of muscle straining as he arches. "Why don't you just admit it? It would be so much nicer for you."

Yes, it would. _Give her what she wants,_ some part of him whispers. _She'll end it. Get relief from this. You can always go back to defying her later. _

And part of him wants to; dear God, wants it so much he can taste its bittersweet flavor on his tongue. But he can't. Because as soon as he makes even a small concession, he's starting down a path he can't return from. He'll keep pushing the line back until he can no longer cross over it.

"No." The word is almost a snarl.

Molly's eyes flash. "Fine."

She presses the button on the table. It begins to straighten out. Soon it is at a 180 degree angle; completely flat. She presses the button again, and it lowers to the floor.

Sherlock looks up at her. Her face is slightly flushed from anger, though her face is composed. His body feels warm and as though every hair is crackling with energy. If she touches him the static electricity will feel like a current arcing through him, and he isn't sure how he'll respond.

But she doesn't touch him. Not with her hands. She lifts one foot and carefully places it on his chest, smiling at his confusion. Then she slowly drags her heel down his body, stopping directly above his groin, watching as he gasps and jerks upright against his bonds.

The symbolism isn't lost on him. He's reminded of The Woman, and her clever, manipulative, self-serving ways. The Woman used subtlety and duplicity in her machinations. Molly is as transparent here as she often is in his universe, but there is a major difference.

His Molly wants to be at his side. This one wants him beneath her feet.

She continues this little game for what feels like forever, dragging a single stiletto heel over nearly every inch of his body. She even rotates the table so that he's hanging downward briefly as she pulls her shoe down his spine with methodical slowness. Every inch of him save his genitals, neck, and face is scraped pink and slightly raw. At least her shoes are new and relatively clean, he thinks, as she moves lithely around him. Maybe it's been an hour; maybe 15 minutes. The Rapture has made him lose all track of time.

When she turns him onto his back again, the blood rushing away from his head and down his body, she raises the table back to waist level and peers down at him.

"Well, pet?" she asks softly, caressing his face with cool, gentle fingers. She's full of contrasts, this Molly; almost sweet one minute and calmly vicious the next. If he was outside looking in, he'd be fascinated. But the game is different when you're the star; that joke isn't funny anymore. It hasn't been funny since he got here.

"Well, what?" he asks her dryly.

"Have you had enough?"

"No, Domina."

"I see. Shall we begin something else, then?"

"Do I have a choice?" he asks.

"You know your choice."

"That choice isn't a real choice."

"Then we'll keep playing, I suppose."

"I _suppose_ _so_, Domina."

Molly alters the Berkley Horse so that Sherlock is slanted at a 105 degree angle. She moves back to the table and pours a glass of water and a glass of wine. She brings both to him, holding the water first for him to drink, then the wine.

He hesitates over the wine, aware of the drug in his system. But the glass at his mouth is insistent, and he's not sure whether she'll force it on him through other means. So he takes a long sip. The flavor is incredible. It's a cabaret sauvignon and the dark ripeness of it slides across his tongue and explodes into a soothing fire as he swallows. Yes, extremely heightened awareness. The drug is peaking.

She follows it with more water, puts them on the nearby small table, then massages his limbs. Her hands are strong, soft; her fingers precise and sure in their movement. Her touch makes him bite back another moan. He needs a distraction.

"What did you do?" he asks suddenly. "Before you came to rule London."

Molly blinks. It's his first real attempt at conversation. "I was an agent for her Majesty, Queen Helen," she replies. "Before that, I was a research scientist."

"That's quite a career change," Sherlock says, and Molly smiles faintly.

"I have talents in a lot of fields," she says. "Her Majesty thought that my diversity and skills should be put to other uses."

"Do you miss it? Scientific research?"

She shakes her head. "I still do research from time to time. And I keep up with the journals. Sometimes I wish I could do more, but I chose this life."

"However unsatisfying it might be."

"I have plenty of slaves to satisfy my desires," she scoffs.

"Then why me? Why are you so determined to get me to give over?" he asks.

She smiles at him, trailing her fingers along his face before lightly clenching his chin.

"Because you're the first one to tell me no."

She removes her hands, then goes back to the table, pulling the small rolling table with her. "And if I can get you to submit, I can get anyone. You're as stubborn as they come."

"So that's it? You only see me as an animal that needs taming?"

Molly shakes her head. "You're different from any man I've ever known. In time, you could be a companion instead of just a thrall."

"And again, I get no say in that."

"Oh for fuck's sake, not this again," she sighs. "You are my property, Sherlock. End of story."

"I've never liked stories," he says coldly.

"It doesn't matter," she says, equally coldly. "Learn to."

She opens another box and removes a white tapered beeswax candle. She puts it on the rolling table along with a box of matches, an empty shotglass, the ice bucket, and the tongs. Even Anderson could see where this is going. He could protest, but it would do no good. The only words she wants to hear from him at this point are "I surrender."

He sighs. "Isn't this a bit cliché?" he asks.

Molly glares. He closes his mouth and shivers, the Rapture making its way through his body like a tidal wave of sensation. There are other things on that table she could use; things he'd like even less than this. His skin pricks hot and cold and he decides it would be best to not antagonize her.

She comes back with the table in tow. She reaches a hand into his hair, tugging on his curls close to his scalp. She concentrates on his reactions while he concentrates on not moaning again.

Molly stops, and he breathes a sigh of relief. The relief is short-lived as she strikes a match and lights the candle. Almost idly, she holds it a foot over his chest. Sherlock finds himself mesmerized by the flame, growing and receding, burning ever brighter until it almost seems like the blue-white glow will envelop him.

His fascination ends abruptly as the first drops of wax fall onto his chest, making him hiss. She follows it with ice, rubbing it in a small circle over the wax splatters, though not until a few seconds have passed for him to feel the burn. And feel it he does, like fiery tears on his already sensitive (too sensitive) skin. How much farther is she going to take all of this? Where is the line that she won't cross? Beating him senseless? Making him scream? Carving into his heart with a spoon? Or just leaving him to rot alone in some empty room (his version of Hell)?

More importantly…. Where is the line that _he_ won't cross?

The sting of melted wax drags him out of his thoughts. This time it's on an upper thigh. The sensation is a bit more intense there, and she systematically pours one drop after another in a trail down his thigh. Each one causes his skin to sing out in pain, the ice providing relief but always two seconds too late. There isn't sensory crossover with empathogenics the way there is with psychedelics; otherwise he probably wouldn't feel the pain from the wax. Maybe it would have a taste, or a color. He'd also likely think it wasn't wax, but ladybirds or gumdrops or something else fanciful and entirely wrong.

He's startled out of his thoughts again, this time by Molly sighing. "Isn't there anything that can keep you out of that head of yours longer than a few minutes?"

He ponders the question. "Unconsciousness?"

"Sherlock."

"Antipsychotics? Opiates?"

"Not funny."

"I'm not joking."

Molly sighs again. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Let me go and help me get back to my universe?"

She smiles sadly at him, sets the ice down and ruffles his hair. "You know I'm not going to do that."

"Can't we make a bargain?" Sherlock asks. "You help me get home in exchange for my assent? You can scratch your obsessive itch, I can leave, everyone gets what they want."

"But that's not what I want. I want your assent, _and_ I want you to stay with me."

He frowns. "Then it appears we're still at an impasse, Domina."

"I didn't really expect anything else."

Silence settles around them; a thick, uncomfortable fog that neither of them knows how to dispel. Finally Molly shakes her head, her gaze frustrated but almost fond. She goes to the intercom.

"Get him cleaned up and take him to seven," she instructs someone.

"What's seven?" Sherlock asks when she's finished.

"Your new home."

He isn't sure if that's good or bad. Molly leans down and brushes her lips against his forehead gently, almost affectionately.

"I'll miss you, Sherlock," she says, straightening and turning to leave.

Definitely not good.

"You're giving up? Are you giving me away?" he asks, feeling a touch of unease. If Molly is shipping him off, she might give him to someone who thinks beating him until blood is drawn is a fun pastime.

She pauses and look at him. "Do you want me to?"

"No." As much as he is angry and disturbed over the past 12 days, he'd rather stay with her. He knows her lines, or think he does, and he can handle what she's done.

"Why?"

He laughs, and there is a little humor in it, dark though it may be. "Because you're the devil I know."

Molly nods, unsurprised. "I'm not giving you away. But a change will do you good. I'll see you eventually."

"Eventually? What does _that_ mean?" he asks.

She doesn't answer; just turns and walks to the stairs and starts to ascend.

"Domina?"

No reply.

"Molly!"

The only sound he hears is silence.

Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five.

He's not sure why he's counting how many times he's paced the room so far today. Perhaps counting gives him some measure of comfort. Perhaps it helps pass the time along with the pacing.

Perhaps it keeps him from screaming.

Not that he's being tortured. Far from it. For nine days he's been left alone, naked, in a white room that only contains a bed and a tiny lavatory with a toilet, shower stall, and a sink for furnishings. White walls, white ceiling, white floors. Blinding with its glare. No window and the door is Glare White as well. Camera and built-in microphone with a speaker too high up for him to tamper with. There is a swinging hinge in the bottom where his food and water are pushed through.

No, no one has harmed so much as a hair on his head. Physically.

Mentally, he's going mad.

Nothing in the room that he didn't examine within the first sixty seconds of being there. No one has been in the room. There is nothing for him to do. He considered demolishing the lavatory out of spite, and had gone so far as to start kicking the sink when he was informed over the speaker that if he didn't stop immediately, he'd spend his time tied to the bed.

His Mind Palace is boring. He knows everything in there. He needs something new. Some stimulation. At this point, he'd almost rather Molly tie him down and torment him some more than be locked in this empty white cage. At least he'd get some sensory input.

Twenty-one days total now. It feels like a lifetime.

He's startled from his thoughts by footsteps, then the sound of the door being unlocked. As it swings open, to his surprise, this universe's John Watson comes in. Unlike Sherlock, he's clothed; a dark brown shirt and pair of trousers. The black leather collar marking him as Mary Morstan's is still around his neck.

Sherlock stands up as the door shuts behind John, looking at this man who is his best friend yet is a stranger. The paradox is unnerving a bit. John's eyes stay on his face, puzzled and obviously discomfited.

John clears his throat. "Would you mind to cover yourself up, please?" he asks politely, so very much like the other John that Sherlock can't help but smile.

"The body is only transport," he says, but obliges the other man by whipping the sheet off the bed and wrapping it around himself. "Better?"

"Yes, thanks. I'm not interested in seeing another man's 'transport,' is all," John says, and Sherlock laughs a bit.

John's face scrunches in confusion. "Why is that so funny?"

"Because it's very like what someone I know would say," Sherlock answers, uncertain as to what exactly John has been told and not wanting to suffer for revealing things he shouldn't.

John nods. "I've been told about you. Lady Hooper says that you…know me, in this other universe, and I know you."

Sherlock nods. "Yes."

"Are we friends, then?" John asks.

"Yes."

John nods, and appears to be turning that over in his head. "I have a few friends here," he says. "Some servants. A thrall named Greg."

"Greg Lestrade?" Sherlock asks, voice almost eager.

John nods. "Yes. He belongs to Lady Donovan."

Sherlock snorts. "You know them? In your universe?" John asks.

"Lestrade is a detective inspector there. Donovan-"

"-Lady Donovan," John interrupts, and Sherlock sighs.

"Fine. _Lady_ Donovan is a sergeant. And neither of them would be thrilled to know this about their counterparts." Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Why are you here?"

John looks down and seems disquieted by the question. Sherlock sighs again. "Lady Hooper."

"She did have me sent for," John admits, moving to sit on the end of the bed. Sherlock sits on the opposite end and they face each other.

"She knows you're my friend. She thought it would get a response out of me; oh, she's clever, very clever. So why are you here, exactly?" Sherlock pauses and laughs; a dry, self-depreciating laugh. "Of course. She wants you to try and change my mind; get me to submit."

"Would that really be so bad?" John asks. "You know what life is like here, Sherlock. What Lady Hooper is offering you-"

"What Lady Hooper is offering me is to be her boy toy," Sherlock interrupts angrily. "The world I live in doesn't keep men as breeders and slaves; people are not owned and possessed in civilized countries."

"No? Not even illegally?" John asks.

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. "All right, yes, there is slave trading. But it's wrong and it's fought against. As it should be here."

John shakes his head. "You're determined to upset the natural order of this world, aren't you?"

"Natural order? This is a machination from centuries ago, not the way it's been since the dawn of time!" Sherlock exclaims. "How can you even think that?"

"It is the natural order now, and has been for quite a while," John says. "Why would I change that?"

"Why? Because you should be free! You shouldn't be anyone's property, catering to her whims and wearing her collar!" Sherlock shouts.

John sighs. "I like My Lady Mary. I don't mind being her property."

"Don't mind…" Sherlock shakes his head. "You've been conditioned. All of you; well, most of you. The man who should have been my brother here was executed for trying to change this existence. Doesn't that tell you something?"

"It tells me he couldn't let himself be happy with his lot in life," John says, and Sherlock snarls in frustration.

"Why can't you just accept this?" John asks, and Sherlock is aghast by the easygoing complacency in his voice. "Lady Hooper told me she's offered you the chance to do research, to be her only thrall…do you know how rare that is? You're not going to get back to your other life, you know. The site where the gate was is guarded 24 hours a day. With weapons. And weapons are almost unheard of in the cities. She's not going to let you go, don't you understand that?"

Sherlock is silent. John continues. "I know you think you're standing up for some principle from your other life, but the truth of the matter, Sherlock, is that you're not hurting anyone but yourself."

Cool blue eyes meet warm brown ones. "Stop this, Sherlock," John says earnestly. "Accept it. Make your life as pleasant as possible. We can probably even be friends; if I like you there, I'll probably like you here, once I get to know you. Aren't you tired of all this?"

"The only thing I'm tired of right now is listening to a man who is my friend in _my_ universe spouting off this nonsense," Sherlock says coolly. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to take a kip."

John shakes his head; it's his turn to sigh now. "Well, I can see you're not going to change your mind anytime soon."

"Not ever," Sherlock says, curling up on the bed as John stands.

John looks at him for a moment. "Right, then. Have it your way. I get the impression that you usually do."

He goes to the door, and a moment later it opens.

"How's that collar feel, John?" Sherlock shouts after him. "Is it too tight?"

There is no response. The door closes, and Sherlock is left alone again with his anger, his thoughts, and the blinding white of his sparse room.

Nothing happens that night, or the next day. But the following evening, he's taken from seven back to the Discipline Room. Instead of being chained to the wall, however, he simply stands, hands cuffed behind his back and shackles on his ankles designed to let him walk but not kick or run. This has never been done before, and he immediately knows something very significant is about to take place.

Molly enters the room, wearing black leather bustier, pants, and boots. She smiles at the sight of him. It's the first time he's seen her in 10 days.

"Sherlock," she says.

"Domina," he replies.

"Did you enjoy your quiet time?"

He rolls his eyes. "Enjoy ten days of boredom? You must be joking."

She smiles again. There is something he doesn't like about this smile. It's not one that he's ever seen on either version of Molly before, and he doesn't know what it means. It's affectionate, yes; but it's also predatory. And it makes him uneasy.

"Why are you smiling at me like that?" he asks.

"I've missed you," she replies. "I'd hoped that boredom would make you change your mind, but that doesn't seem to be the case. So it's time for a new approach."

"Another one? You're like a magician who's running out of tricks," Sherlock says, smirking. "You'd be better off to pack up your bag and leave the stage before the crowd boos you off."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Molly says. Her smile doesn't fade. If anything, it's more pronounced.

"I've got one more move I can try; one more trick to perform."

"Oh?" Sherlock asks with a combination of curiosity and disdain.

She nods and turns to one of her guards. "Bring him in."

Sherlock frowns. "Bring who in?"

Molly doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to wait for very long (through anything over 15 seconds feels like too long to him). The door opens and John is brought in on a leash by Mary Morstan. John bows to Molly and the leash is removed from his collar. Mary stands beside him. She is obviously upset, but she's also resolute.

"John."

"Lady Hooper. How may I serve you?"

Sherlock's eyes widen, then narrow. He can't figure out the angle of her new game yet, and that bothers him more than a lashing on the back would.

"John, I gave you a task yesterday. To convince Sherlock to put an end to his refusal to serve. Correct?"

"Yes, Lady."

"And did you succeed at that task?"

"No, Lady Hooper. I did not."

Molly nods. "He's a difficult subject. I can sympathize with the outcome. However, the fact is that you failed. Do you know what happens when a thrall fails to perform as asked, John?"

"Yes, Lady Hooper," John says. His eyes are downcast and he's clearly upset.

And suddenly, Molly's "trick" becomes all too clear.

"What happens, John?"

"He's punished, Lady Hooper," John answers, his voice even despite his agitation.

"Now wait one damn minute!" Sherlock snaps.

"Correct. So you will be punished now."

"You can't do that!" Sherlock exclaims.

Molly ignores him. "Mary?"

Mary is still upset, but after a second's hesitation she says: "prepare him for punishment."

"You can't do this," Sherlock says angrily. He moves toward them but is held by two guards. Two other guards start rapidly stripping John of his clothes. Sherlock averts his eyes, focusing them instead on Molly and Mary. "You can't do this!" He shouts again. "It's not his fault that I didn't change my mind!"

"But it is," Molly says. "He had a task to perform. He failed. Now he has to face the consequence."

Naked now, John is led to the wall.

"He didn't fail. He had no chance of succeeding!" Sherlock yells. He is ignored as John is secured to the wall, back to the room. John's expression is stoic, controlled, but his face has paled.

"A shame. He's never had to be punished before," Molly says.

"This is monstrous! You can't punish someone for the actions of someone else!" Sherlock says, his voice steadily rising in fury. He pulls against his guards, but they hold him in an iron grip.

A guard hands Molly a riding crop.

Sherlock looks at Mary. "Lady Morstan. Surely you don't agree with this!"

"It is the law," she replies remotely, looking at John.

"The law? What kind of law allows someone to be beaten for not being able to change someone's mind?" Sherlock shouts.

"Enough, Sherlock," Molly says. She moves behind John. "Stop or he'll get double the lashes."

Sherlock watches in horror as she flexes her muscles. Molly raises the riding crop to deliver the first blow. John closes his eyes.

"_Stop!_"

The raw agony in Sherlock's voice makes Molly stop in mid-air. She looks at him; everyone looks at him.

He doesn't care. He knew as soon as she started asking John questions what she was planning to do. He knows why she's doing it, and it has nothing to do with the law. Molly lowers the riding crop.

"Please," Sherlock says, voice slightly cracked from screaming and distress. "Please, Domina. No one should be punished for the actions of someone else. I'm the one who's not cooperating. Punish me instead."

"Punishing you isn't effective, as we've learned over the past twenty-two days," Molly replies. She turns back toward John and raises her arm again.

He only has one thing to bargain with; one choice to make. It isn't a choice, but this time it's for the right reasons.

"_I give up!_"

Again her arm freezes and everyone looks at him.

Sherlock's eyes are fixed on Molly. "I'll do whatever you want. I won't fight you," he says hoarsely. "Just don't hurt him. Please."

"Sherlock," John says in amazement.

Sherlock's guards loosen their hold on him. He walks to Molly and, with surprising grace for someone who has his hands cuffed behind his back, drops to his knees in front of her.

"Please, Domina," he says quietly.

Molly's eyes search his. She nods. "Release John," she tells the guards. "Give him back his clothing."

Sherlock sighs in relief.

"Sherlock, you can't do this," John says, staring at him in disbelief as he's released. "You're going against everything you stand for if you do this."

Sherlock turns his head and smiles sadly. "I'm going against everything I stand for if I _don't_, John."

John looks at him for a moment. He seems to understand; to know that this was never about him to begin with. And he seems to know he can't change Sherlock's mind, and that he shouldn't have to. He nods, his eyes conveying his gratitude, then begins to dress.

Molly reaches down and turns Sherlock's face back to hers. "I'll give you everything I offered," she says softly. "In a few days, you can see him again. As long as you keep your word, I'll keep mine. Understood?"

"Understood, Domina," he says.

She smiles, and now her smile is happy and soft. She looks so much like the Molly in his world it hurts.

"You may call me Lady Molly now." Her fingers run through his curls; a thumb brushes over his mouth.

He swallows his pride and anger and looks up at her. "Yes, Lady Molly."

And when she kisses him, he lets his mouth open to hers, lets her explore and possess it. His mind is in turmoil, but he is at peace with his choice.


	4. The Truth Shall Set You Free

A/N: Last chapter! This is dedicated to ReelaReela and rozez-have-thornz. Thanks to everyone for reading!

When she stops, she cards her fingers through his hair, trails them down his cheekbones. He closes his eyes to block out the sight, for once not wanting to see what is around him.

"Sherlock. Look at me," she says.

He does, staring up at her, his normally sharp blue eyes momentarily dulled by the weight he now willingly carries.

"You made the right decision."

He wants to scream at her that it wasn't a decision; that it was a choice that wasn't a choice. But he knows how far she'll go now to ensure he submits. So he's silent.

Of course she'd figure it out, he thinks bitterly. She's not stupid. Caring may be a disadvantage but try as he has, he's never managed to fully rid himself of it. Now he's sold himself over it. But even though this man is not _his_ friend John, he is still John Watson, and Sherlock couldn't stand by and let him be punished like that.

Lady Molly continues caressing his face. He closes his eyes again in resignation.

She pulls her hands away and he opens his eyes. "Take him to my bedroom," she tells several guards. "Let him prepare."

Sherlock has no idea what this means, but at least he won't be in the Discipline Room anymore. Hopefully she'll let him have clothing soon, too. He's never cared about clothes before. His suits are to present the appearance the world thinks he should have. But here, without clothing, he feels exposed. Clothing carries significance very unlike his world, and the difference makes him long even for a bed sheet.

He's taken upstairs and released from his restraints. A guard points to the lavatory. "Clean yourself up. Bath, hair, teeth," she orders. "There will be clothes waiting for you when you get out. Take your time, within reason."

He feels both anxious and relieved. The room has a huge tub, with water jets and an adjustable shower. There is a wide variety of bath products on a cart. As the water runs he opens them and sniffs each one until he finds shampoo and body wash in acceptable scents. He turns off the taps, grabs a flannel and towel from a cupboard, and settles in.

He's not sure what "within reason" means, but figures a 15 minute soak fits the description. He knows what she's doing. She's giving him some time to adjust to his decision. To come to terms with the fact that she now owns him in every sense but one. Some would call it soul, or spirit; he doesn't like those terms. He settles on essence. Still a bit fanciful, but more accurate, he thinks.

He looks down at his body, pale and lithe, the water running off his taut skin in tiny rivulets. Soon her hands will be all over him, caressing him, her mouth kissing, her tongue tasting. It makes him flinch inside despite his stoicism. He'll be expected not to fight it; to let it happen. Then he realizes she'll likely want more than that; it won't be very enjoyable for her if he just lies there, unresponsive, will it? Can he even become aroused that way? What is he going to do; lie back and think about home and homicides? Will she drug him to coax the physical response she wants from his body, or will he be able to distract himself enough to let his body respond on his own?

He's aware that most people would find it odd that he's calmly contemplating what's about to happen: analyzing what is, in essence, going to be the taking of his virginity under coerced consent. But what else should he be doing? Sobbing? Feeling sorry for himself? Being afraid? He's rarely tasted fear, and at any rate he has nothing to be afraid of. She won't hurt him. Crying and lamenting won't serve any useful purpose. It's only his body. She can have it, if it will stop her from harming John. His mind will be safe, and that's what truly matters.

He hears the sound of someone in her bedroom. Obviously leaving the aforementioned clothes. He scrubs himself briskly and then unplugs the drain, switching to the shower to wash his hair. It does feel good to be out of that tiny white hellhole of a prison he'd endured for 10 days. He may not like to admit to sentiment or caring, but he'll announce boredom anytime.

He dries off, brushes his teeth and hair with what is obviously meant for his use, then opens the door into the bedroom. He stops short as he sees the clothes. Turquoise silk pyjamas. No pants, socks, or slippers. Whatever he'd been expecting, this wasn't it. He slowly puts them on, somehow feeling more exposed than when he was naked. They're a perfect fit, and they feel good against his skin. He wishes he hated that. But the texture of his clothing has always mattered to him; nothing distracting while working, thank you. Just simple comfort. She obviously derived this information when she tested his skin sensitivity. Oh, yes; clever.

There is a silver tray on the dresser, with a bottle of wine and two wine glasses. One glass is full. It's the same wine she gave him in the Green Room, but an older vintage. He takes the hint and takes a deep drink. She doesn't want him drunk; he's sure of that. She wants him to be relaxed physically is all; just a slight dulling of his senses. Not because she thinks he'll resist, but to make it easier on him not to want to.

Suddenly he remembers a line from a film. John watched it on the telly while Sherlock was reading one night when there was no case. Some ridiculous old science fiction film. The heroine had been kidnapped and was going to be forced to marry the villain. One of her guards offered her a cup of some magical liquid to make her time there 'more bearable'. The heroine asked if it would make her forget. The other woman replied no; but it would make her not mind remembering.

Ridiculous. He should have deleted it. But he hadn't.

He sits in a chair and takes another drink. He doesn't want to forget what will happen, even if he had a glass of magical elixir. He hasn't given up on convincing her to change this world, and he'll need every scrap of information he can get about her to try and succeed. But as he drains the glass and begins to mellow, to feel his sharpness blur just a bit, he finds that he doesn't mind the distraction the wine offers.

When she comes in the room, he's still sitting in the chair, legs drawn up, fingers under his chin. She's changed out of her leather garb; unsurprising, since she'd only worn the cliché outfit to prove a point. Why hadn't he seen it immediately? Now she's wearing a long, dark green silk dress that flows around her ankles. No underwear beneath, and bare feet. Hair flowing over her shoulders. He expected she'd have a gloating, triumphant look on her face, but she doesn't.

She shuts the door and they stare at each other for a few seconds. Molly breaks the silence. "Pour me some wine," she says softly.

He obeys. As he hands her the glass she adds: "Now pour another glass for yourself."

"Yes, Lady Molly," he says, managing to keep his voice neutral. She settles in the other chair in the room as he does, watching him as he sits back down.

Sherlock takes a drink, studying her over the rim of the glass. "Do I even need to ask what happens now?" he queries wryly.

Molly smiles. "We drink. We talk. You relax."

"Here's to two out of three," Sherlock says, raising his glass to her before taking another drink.

Her smile deepens and she takes a drink from her glass. "I'm hoping for all three. I'd rather not drug you to accomplish it, unless you want me too."

"No," he says, shaking his head.

"I didn't think so. And for the long term; this week I'll take you with me to the lab. I could use another scientific mind for an experiment I'm going to start. You'll be given some time with John. I've had clothes ordered for you."

"And a collar?" he can't resist asking.

She arches her eyebrows. "You know the answer to that, Sherlock."

"Yes. I do," he replies. He takes another sip at her pointed look. "And for the short term?"

"You know the answer to that, too."

"Why?" he asks, curious and perplexed. He holds up a hand. "No. What I mean is: you're apparently offering me the moon. Research, time with my friend's counterpart, to take no other slaves: why? It has to be more than just keeping me compliant. Look at the way women run this world. Why do you care so much about getting me to yield? You control men, you rule them. Was it really just because I kept resisting?"

She glanced down. There was something in her eyes, then it was gone. "I think that's enough questions for tonight. Drink your wine, Sherlock."

He finishes his glass around the same time she finishes hers. It wasn't drugged. The lightheadedness he feels is from the wine and the lack of any regular drinking of alcohol. It's a pleasant feeling. Makes him peaceful and warm and just the faintest bit flushed.

He sees her looking at him. "Yes, it's having an effect on me. That's what you wanted, isn't it? Me, docile, ready to give in to your desires?"

"Sherlock," she says warningly.

"Isn't it, Lady Molly?" he continues, getting up to sit on his knees in front of her. "Well here I am. At long last, it's Christmas." She stands up and glares at him, lips pressed together, as he brings his own lips to her ear.

"Take me, Molly. Take me hard."

"Enough!" Molly snaps, roughly pushing on his shoulders. He falls back onto the floor and she straddles him, pinning his wrists above his head, squeezing the pressure points when he starts to struggle. He stops and looks at her.

"Does it excite you when I fight?" Sherlock asks her. "Does it make you feel more dominant?"

"You don't want to play this game, Sherlock," she growls. "Not tonight. Maybe not ever. So do as I say and shut it."

He glares at her. She cups his face in her hands. "Stop fighting me. You will lose. You already lost."

His eyes flick down and he draws an unsteady breath. He's not so far gone that he's forgotten their arrangement, even though his blood is boiling.

She kisses him, gently, coaxing the corners of his lips with the tip of her tongue. His lips soften and part through no volition of his own. He feels the soft, curving weight of her small breasts pressing into his chest. He hears a low moan and is shocked to discover that it came from him. Was there something in his wine glass he didn't detect? Or is the alcohol here more potent?

"That's it, Sherlock," Molly murmurs. "Just let it happen."

His thoughts grow hazy as she continues kissing him, running her fingers lightly through his curls. With the alcohol in his system, it is almost pleasant to have her touch him. John was right, this John, when he'd said Sherlock was only hurting himself. He'd offered himself to her. Who was he helping by continuing to try and resist? No one. There was no point. Either she got what she wanted from him, or John would pay the price.

This time when he moans, it is a mix of resignation and despair. He might be able to be rational about this, but it still evokes feelings in him. Especially with his emotions heightened the way they are right now.

"Shh," Molly says, her voice oddly soothing. "It doesn't have to be this way, Sherlock. Give over. Isn't that better?"

He knows she's right. She's going to have him. Why fight it? Let her arouse his body, tuck his mind away for safekeeping, give himself to her, and get it over with.

He breathes deeply, forcing his body to relax. It wants her, or maybe it wants his world's Molly. He can't tell now. He could pretend this Molly was her; pretend it was the sweet, kind pathologist he knew and cared about. _Why not?_ Some reckless part of him asked_. Pretend she's your Molly. Won't that make it easier?_

He couldn't do it every time. It wouldn't help him stay focused on finding a way home. It would be the way that madness lies, letting those lines stay blurred.

But for tonight, just for this, the addict in him wants to lose himself in a fantasy.

So when she kisses him again, he closes his eyes and thinks of kissing _his_ Molly. And when she trails her mouth down his neck, kissing, biting and marking his skin, he imagines his Molly. It is his pathologist who undresses him; who wraps her slim fingers around his cock and strokes him slowly and firmly as he hardens in her hand. Molly and her odd taste in clothes (he doesn't care about fashion; the way she dresses has never affected his opinion of her), her attire gauche by most people's standards, yet cheerful (she's removed her dress, her bare skin is pressed to his; Molly's dress had been sleek and black, she'd tried so hard to get him to notice her), the ever-present ponytail (except that Christmas, he'd been so awful to her; and a few times in her flat after he'd faked his death. Her hair is loose now as well; hanging in a soft fragrant curtain around her face) and that smile.

Her hands are everywhere on him. Her mouth; he's stopped counting the kisses she places all over him. Then her hands continue stroking his dick and his hips rise helplessly. He's never had a physical sensation like this. Not even from the drugs. It's exhilarating and overwhelming and (oh, Molly, I never knew it would be like this) the only thing he can do is give in to it.

When she slides on top of him, sinking down onto him, drawing him into her wet heat, his fingers splay across her back, holding her to him. As she rocks against him, he rises to meet her thrusts, soft moans occasionally escaping him. In his mind, he's with Molly; his Molly. He's gone to her not out of guilt or pity or some sense of obligation, but because he doesn't want to be shut away. There is nothing that he wants to keep from her anymore.

And when she's climaxed twice, and his own orgasm is torn from him, she rests her weight on him and buries her face against his neck, whispering his name. He doesn't respond; his voice is caught in his throat and his eyes brim with unshed tears.

Sherlock glances at the clock on the wall of the study. Lady Molly will be home soon. She'll expect him to eat with her and converse with her. Beyond that, he has no idea.

It's been three weeks since she "played the John Watson card", as he overheard two house servants say. Since then, he's been allowed in her lab twice a week when she gets home from the Counsel. They're working on making medication for children that tastes good and is anti-emetic. Also cataloging some specimens brought in from India. It's interesting enough to keep him occupied.

He's also been allowed to see this universe's John once a week. He's very much like his counterpart, except that he's quite docile. The similarities are enough that it makes the ache Sherlock doesn't even want to acknowledge fade away just a bit, while also making it worse.

Lady Molly (he thinks of her that way in his head now, to separate her from his Molly in his universe) has kept her word on everything she offered him. He hasn't been punished for anything yet, though he's pushed her a bit a few times. He tries to keep it at the line while testing to see where all the lines are.

In return for her keeping her part of their arrangement, he's keeping his. He wears the clothes she gives him without protest. Sometimes she wants to see him in a suit; other times, jeans and a t-shirt. He wears pyjamas to bed every night, but rarely ends up sleeping in them. Even if she doesn't want sex, she likes undressing him slowly, or having him undress for her. Sometimes that's as soon as she walks in. Other times he makes it until time for bed.

He doesn't protest about the sex, either. Well; only barely. He doesn't fight his arousal (and she can arouse him, without drugs, and he's both relieved and dismayed); follows her commands quickly and to the letter. Sometimes they drink wine and talk first, and other times she comes in and snaps her fingers for him to strip for her. He catalogs each encounter in his mind, not because he likes or wants the memories, but because he needs to retain the knowledge of what she likes; how to please her.

As much as he detests being forced into sex (feelings and their chemicals, though he'd be lying if he said the addict in him didn't like the hormonal high), it pales in comparison to how he feels about the collar. Black leather, set with blue star sapphires and emeralds, it is exquisitely crafted. It was handmade just for him. He's never allowed to remove it, and he wishes every day he could rip it off his throat and throw it into the sea. It symbolizes that she owns him here, that he is property. That his life isn't under his control.

He looks up as she enters the room, deducing, trying to determine what she'll want tonight.

_Jacket and shoes gone. Anxious to disassociate from her day at Council._

_Crumbs on her blouse. Already ate something to save time once she arrived home._

_Tension in shoulders. Stressful day._

_Pupils dilated. Lower lip slightly plump from being bitten._

_Conclusion: highly aroused, seeking physical contact and relief. Sexual activity imminent._

"And what have you deduced, pet?" she asks him, knowing that he hates the nickname as much as she hates being deduced.

"That you've had a rather rough day and you plan to use me as the balm to soothe your wounds," he answers acerbically.

She walks over to him, takes the book from his hands, snaps it closed and puts it back on the shelf.

"Never gets old, does it," she muses, looking at him. "Showing off."

"No," he answers, keeping his voice neutral. The mood she's in could easily turn against him if he's not careful. And while he'd endure if he got a lashing, he can't abide knowing that one phone call and it will be John who suffers instead.

Lady Molly grabs the hair at the back of his head and pulls his head up. He opens his mouth and retreats into his mind as she kisses him, her lips savage on his. He remains perfectly still, knowing that once she gets this wave of anger out she'll be calmer and have a better disposition. He's spent a lot of time learning her moods and how to lessen the negative effects. He's not always successful with the latter. Sometimes there is nothing he can do to please her, it seems. But more often than not he can mitigate the worst of it.

So he remains pliant and lets her get her fill of his mouth and the fingers fisting his hair. When she stops, her fingers unclench and stroke his head soothingly, and her lips gently brush over his where she had ruthlessly seized them only a few seconds before. He sighs almost inaudibly and relaxes slightly against her; two actions he's learned she likes. She likes it when he seems to be responding to her gentleness. He's used that trick more than once in the past three weeks. She's not the only one with cards, even if his are far less powerful.

He finishes it off with looking at her through lowered lashes. "How may I serve you tonight, my lady?" he asks. He asks her that every night. It's part of the ritual she taught him.

"A very warm bath, I think," she says. "A long soak with you will do me good. Add some honeysuckle oil to it."

"As you command, lady."

She doesn't take his clothes off, which usually means she'll want him to do it for her. He suppresses a sigh and goes to run the bath. He memorized her preferred water temperatures weeks ago, so he knows what "a very warm bath" means. He adds the scented oil she requested as the water runs, and sits on the toilet lid, grateful for a few more minutes alone before the night's ordeal begins.

When she enters the bathroom she closes the door. There are two wineglasses in her hands. She's only wearing a floral patterned silk robe. She sits the wineglasses down, her eyes roaming his body for a moment before she says: "undress for me."

This, too, he knows. His hands are steady as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, slips it off, and tosses it in the hamper. This morning she had him wear a long-sleeved, button-up black silk shirt and a pair of white linen trousers, no underwear, bare feet. Perhaps she knew all along how her day would be.

He slowly slides the trousers down, steps out of them and adds them to the hamper. Her eyes darken and she nods in approval. "Now undress me," she tells him.

"Yes, Lady Molly," he replies.

His fingers lightly brush the soft skin below her collarbone as he unties her robe there, then moves down to the tie at her waist. He slowly slips it down her body and lets it flutter to the floor. She moves a step closer and presses herself against him, her breasts warm and soft against his lower chest. She nuzzles her face in, then presses an open-mouthed kiss to one nipple before she moves back and slides into the tub.

"Get the wine and get in," she says.

He obeys, handing her both glasses while he gets in the tub, his back pressed against her chest. After he settles, she hands him his wine and he leans back fully, glad that the tub is large enough to comfortably accommodate their position. She takes a long drink from her glass, and he follows suit. She's put something in his. Something to relax him a bit more than just the wine will accomplish. There's no point in getting angry or refusing to drink it, so he says nothing.

"What happened today?" he asks instead. This, too, is part of their ritual; him asking her about her day. He doesn't have to be a consulting detective to know that the way she treats him, and has him act with her, is a cross between slave and lover. He's tried a few times to talk with her a little about how this world is run, but she hasn't been very receptive. He isn't deterred, though.

"Arguments. Machinations. Leaders in other cities trying to cause trouble. The usual."

"You don't particularly like this part of your job. Why do you still do it?"

She sighs. "I'm good at it. And it has its privileges."

"Like getting your pick of slaves?" he can't resist asking.

"Sherlock," she says, the warning clear in her tone.

"Yes, Lady Molly."

The hand that isn't holding her wineglass travels in wet circles over his chest, pinching his nipples before resting over his heart. "Have you ever let anyone in here?" she asks.

He's tempted to lie, but she's uncannily good at knowing when he's dishonest. "A few people."

"Like your world's John."

"Yes."

"What about Her?"

He's at a loss. He doesn't know how to explain what Molly means to him. He's never let himself dwell on his feelings for her very long. This opens up a door he wants to leave closed, because missing her hurts. Missing John hurts too, but it's different, and he doesn't want to examine why Molly's different from John in his mind. Not now, anyway. Not with this other version of her touching the collar she put around his neck.

"She's my friend," he says at length.

"And that's all you feel?"

"I don't see why it matters."

"Interesting," she says, and drinks more wine.

They sit like this until they finish their glasses, then she takes his glass and sits both of them down beside the tub. She turns over and faces him, water sliding down her body and glistening in the ends of her hair. She begins trailing kisses down his cheek, his throat, and he closes his eyes and tilts his head back to give her better access. No point in fighting this, either. The sooner it's over, the sooner he can lose himself in the book again, and he's not interested in postponing the inevitable in this situation.

She slides down his body, their warm, wet skin slickly pressing together. Her mouth leaves moist imprints as she goes; past his nipples, above his navel, across one hip. When her lips move down further, grazing the soft, curling hair, he can't stop the twitch. And when she slips his cock between her lips and smoothly slides it down her throat, he can't stop his hips from thrusting with want.

He hates this feeling. It's especially troubling tonight. He'd planned on keeping his mouth shut and getting it over with, but staying silent when he wants to talk has never been one of his strong suits.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks her.

She stops and frowns, slipping him out of her mouth and looking up at him. "What do you mean?"

"The wine, the oral sex…it's unnecessary and we both know it. In the end I'll have to do whatever you want anyway. So your motive can only be to torment me further."

Her frown deepens. "You're not very grateful for the change of pace."

"Is that what I'm supposed to be? All right, then. **Thank** you, Lady Molly, for making things so pleasant while you compel me to satisfy your desires. It really is **too kind** of you."

"Why can't you believe that I just want to make it nicer for you," she says. She's still calm, but he hears the anger; an undercurrent that he is in imminent danger of being dragged into. But he can't resist one last remark.

"You're violating me. There is no way of making that nicer."

One hand goes to fist his curls, the other grabs his chin. "You think this is as bad as it could be?" she asks, and now the anger is right on the surface, blazing in her eyes, and unease ripples through him. "Do you? Do you think for one second that even you could tolerate constant beatings, being drugged all day, or locked up for a month? Some slaves probably are, you know. Do I need to remind my clever little pet of who is the master here?"

He thinks of John, and a twinge of wild panic takes hold. Is she about to have John beaten before his eyes? Or something worse?

He almost laughs. He goes from one universe to another, and he's still doing anything to save John Watson.

"I-" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"Shut up. Not a word until I say so."

He closes his mouth. She gets out of the tub, dries off, and leans over him, lightly trailing her nails down his chest with one hand, the other hand resting on his leg scant inches from his dick. He tenses, but remains quiet. Slowly, almost casually, she runs her hand further down while the other one slides over to grasp his bollocks so hard he gasps.

"You've got a big mouth, don't you?" she asks tenderly. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you like making me angry."

He stops the snort before it escapes.

"Out of the tub and dry off," she orders.

He gets out and dries himself as quickly as he can. She points to her bedroom. "Stand against the south wall."

The restraining wall. He walks to it.

"Face me. Arms up, legs apart."

He silently complies, watching as she attaches cuffs to his wrists and ankles and secures him in place. She stands in front of him, just looking at him in the glow of the flameless candles she switched on earlier.

She begins to kiss him, taking his lower lip between hers and sucking on it, then running her tongue to his upper lip, licking, tracing the outline of his mouth. Then she slowly begins to kiss his face, making her way across his cheeks to his ears, back to his mouth, sliding her lips along his jaw and down his neck, her tongue darting out in tiny flicks. His breathing is not quite steady.

She swipes the erratic pulse in his throat and travels down his chest, still only touching him with her mouth and tongue, until she reaches a nipple. She takes it into her mouth, tugging softly, licking and blowing on it until the nub hardens. She feels him quiver as she repeats the process with the other nipple. _A reflexive response to a stimulus. Nothing more, _he tells himself. But he knows it isn't fully true.

Very slowly she moves to the base of his organ, tongue tracing the tiny folds of skin around his bollocks, then licks him from base to tip; first hard, then soft, alternating with the top and underside of her tongue, going back and forth. Her tongue slips up to the fleshy head of his cock, swirling around, running up and down the shaft. She takes him into one hand, pressing gently against the ridged area just below the tip. Her lips envelop him and she begins to suck, paying special care to the back of the shaft. Each time she moves she rests her mouth against the tip, probing the opening, varying the intervals, her other hand continuing to caress.

He's trembling now, and hardening again from her touch. She stops sucking and wraps her hands around him, sliding slowly back up, brushing his skin with hers. His face is flushed, his chest heaves; his eyes burn into hers for a split second before he closes them and turns away.

Why can't he stop this? Stupid biology, stupid alcohol and whatever else she gave him. Stupid sentiment. But even as he thinks it, he knows that it would have just been a matter of time. She would have kept at him with something else until he caved. John was only a way to expedite matters, and to help ensure his continued cooperation.

She continues to caress. A terrible thing, to be betrayed by your own body. This is the thing he abhors most, the fact that he can't stop himself from reacting. Why must she draw it out? Why can't she just take him and be finished with it? But he knows the answer even as the thoughts appear. His "big mouth." She doesn't want to involve Lady Morstan and John for something this minor, but she has to exert her power over him.

He sighs. One of these days, his inability to shut up may get him killed. Tonight it's going to… he stops the thought. It's getting harder to think. The drug is clouding his mind a bit. He'd say it was pleasant, if it had been his choice and under different circumstances. But it makes what's happening more tolerable, so he supposes he'll be satisfied with that.

All thought, hazy or not, comes to a screaming halt as she lets his cock go and takes possession of his mouth. Her lips rake over his in a gesture of ownership, anger melding with the desire until they are a heated blur. When she finally stops his eyes are glazed, his lips swollen from the force of her fury. Her fingers are tangled in his hair, holding his face still as she looks at him.

"You are my _slave_, do you understand? You obey me, and you don't let that mouth of yours get the better of you! You are here to please me. Not start fights, not defy me! Do you understand me, Sherlock?"

He looks at her. This face, this furious, commanding expression, is one that his Molly would never have. It makes him miss his world more than ever.

"Answer me, Sherlock. Or do I need to make a call?"

"No!" he says quickly. "Yes, Lady Molly. I understand."

"You'd better. And there had better be no more comments like that from you. I've been good to you. Don't make me regret it."

Looking at her, he's suddenly struck by the horrific fact that she honestly believes what she's saying. She's like a slave owner from before emancipation. She treats her slaves well, so she's not a bad person. The fact that she thinks owning slaves is fine doesn't bother her.

It gives him food for thought, and an idea or two. But not for tonight. He needs to repair what damage he can, not cross a line that can't be uncrossed.

She runs a thumb over his mouth, gleaming wet from her kiss, tender to the touch. He winces slightly. She pulls on his lower lip, tracing patterns with her nail until his lip quivers. Only then does she trail her hand down. His nipples are hard. She moves lower.

He closes his eyes, but she orders him to open them and look at her.

He shivers. She always allows him to close his eyes. This is going to be different, apparently. Her gaze never leaving his, she continues with her caress. He hardens again. She slips a hand to his bollocks, lifting them; stroking them as her other hand pumps his shaft. His eyes are a kaleidoscope of emotions: anger, distress, vulnerability, and yes, that unwanted wanting. But it's only in his eyes. He remains silent, as she commanded.

She frees him and orders him to the bed. He moves quickly and gracefully, lying on his back as she kneels beside him. A moment later she lifts his arms up beside his head. Not to restrain him, but so she can straddle him. Her fingers clench his chest slightly as she centers herself over him. He can feel her arousal leaving a moist oval of heat on his stomach just before she lifts up, moving a hand to his hardness and lowering herself slowly until he's sheathed inside her.

She pulls herself slowly upward until she's almost free of him, then plunges back down, taking all of him into her. She settles against him and begins grinding her hips with long deliberate strokes. He bucks against her, hears his breaths turn into gasps, and knows that his body has given over even if the rest of him hasn't. She slows her pace, and a moan escapes him.

Didn't he tell himself not to fight her? It would've all been over by now, she'd be asleep soon, and he'd be in peace. Now she's drawing this out as well.

He desperately wants it to end. He can't be defiant again, though, which leaves one other option. He hasn't said it to her since that night she threatened to punish this John. But it would go a long way in changing her mood, and get her to get on with it. So he swallows the bitter sensation and whispers it.

"Please."

His surrender is fuel to her fire, just like he knew it would be. Her movements become more primal as she continues rolling her hips, the built-up need taking over, not willing to wait. She cries out, the rush of her orgasm catching him by surprise with its quick ferocity. She clings to him, riding the waves as they wash over both of them, her muscles clamping down on him like a vise, milking him until he, too, climaxes, moaning again deeply as he does.

As she collapses against him, he isn't certain whether it was a sound of sorrow, unwilling pleasure, or both.

"Sherlock."

He looks up from the microscope as she says his name. She's leaning against the doorframe, wearing a burgundy silk slip dress and black leather heels. They're going out, then. She'll have laid his outfit out already on the bed; black linen trousers, indigo long-sleeved silk shirt, black cashmere socks and black leather wing tips. And an indigo leather leash. Nothing but the best for her precious only thrall.

Four months. That's how long he's been here. One hundred days today that he's been hers. Ah, yes. That's why they're going out. He'd rather stay there; being out and seeing other men on leashes, some made to crawl, doesn't appeal to him. But as with almost everything else, the choice isn't his to make.

He's had discussions with her, off and on, about the wrongness of slavery and a society dominated by either gender. Even though he knows full well in his own world many areas are still largely a man's game, things have changed and will continue to change, such as slavery being illegal. It doesn't happen overnight. But it does happen. Sometimes she tells him to shut up; sometimes she debates him, and sometimes she simply listens. She never says one way or another if she agrees or not.

He sighs and switches off the microscope. "Yes, Lady Molly?"

"Go and get changed. We're going out to dinner."

"Yes, lady."

He goes to the bedroom and of course he was correct, save one detail; the leash matches her dress, not his shirt. He shrugs and changes clothes, finding no pleasure in his cleverness.

He's standing before the ornate mirror, buttoning his sleeves, when she comes in. He sees her eyes sweep over him. She smiles. "Perfect."

She goes to the bed and picks up the leash, standing before him. "We're not going to have a fit tonight, are we?" she asks.

"No, lady," he answers evenly. She's referring to a few other occasions over the past 100 days when she put his leash on and he balked. Along with other incidents, it led to fights, and punishments. Finally he'd pushed her too far. The last time led to three lashes on John's back while Sherlock shouted in anger, guilt, and pleading. He's finished with that particular rebellion.

Truth be told, after seeing John's taut, pain-lined face after those three hard lashes, Sherlock has all but stopped resisting anything she wants. His pride and anger aren't worth someone else's suffering.

She attaches the leash to the collar, watching him expectantly. He stands still. Satisfied, she slips the strap into her hand. "Come on," she says softly. "I have a present for you before dinner."

Her "present" is to take him to the police station. He stares at her in confusion as Donovan steps out into the hallway. She looks distinctly unhappy, but then her face takes on a more neutral expression.

"Well, Freak," she says, "Congratulations. Her Ladyship says that starting tomorrow, you're to be allowed to help with cases."

"Sally," Lady Molly says, more from her addressing him as Freak than telling him the reason for their visit.

"Sorry," Donovan says, though she clearly isn't.

Sherlock stares at Lady Molly, truly surprised. Men aren't allowed to do this sort of work. Have his words affected her, at least a little? Has he reached some part of her after all?

She catches his stare and shrugs. "You're brilliant. The most brilliant man I've ever known. That's more important to the victims than tradition."

He's at a loss for words at first. The chance to have the Work again, even here, is wonderful. To be able to make a difference, to satisfy his need for distraction, to let his brain come to life once more. He has no doubt she won't let him do it as often as he'd like; he is still very much her possession, he's sure. But even if it's one case a week it will help.

"Well, Fre-I mean, Sherlock? Aren't you going to thank your Lady?" Donovan asks snidely.

"Of course," he murmurs. He kneels before Lady Molly. "Thank you, my lady, for this gift," he says, trying to look as earnest as possible.

She smiles and leans down, cupping his chin in one hand. She raises his head and kisses him. It's a full-on kiss, her tongue seeking entrance to his mouth. He opens to her, lets his body relax, puts on the appearance of a perfectly docile slave, aware that Donovan is watching him for any signs of rebellion. She'd love a chance to cause trouble, and though he loathes his enslavement, life with Lady Molly is much better than being used as a breeding stallion or being tormented on a regular basis.

When she's finished, she strokes his cheek; a gesture that almost seems loving. "You see, Sally?" she says to her second in command. "He's not a bad slave."

"Hmph." Donovan (he refuses to call her Lady Donovan in his head; compared to her, the other Donovan is a saint) looks disappointed. Doubtless she thought when he found this out he'd get cocky and misbehave. She'll find out soon enough how very _not_ stupid he is.

He smiles at Lady Molly, as adoringly as he can muster. It's worth it to see Donovan scowl.

"Is he really that good?"

"He's my most prized possession," Lady Molly says.

Sherlock sighs inwardly. Well. Rome wasn't built in a day. This is a start.

"Get up, Sherlock," she says, tugging on his leash. "Time to eat."

They are dining at one of her favorite restaurants; a fondue place a few miles from her home. As is the custom, she sits in a chair and Sherlock sits on a large cushion at her feet. She unfastened his leash for the time being and sat it on the table. He glances around. Some slaves aren't allowed to sit without their leash attached. Some women attach the collars to chains, and to rings in the floor. Others hold the leashes. Some men are not even allowed to sit but must crouch at their owner's feet.

Yes, a gilded cage is still a cage. But it's better than an oubliette.

Lady Molly orders tea instead of wine, which he's grateful for. She gets some chicken kabobs and pita bread with hummus, cheese fondue, and a plate of fruit with chocolate fondue. As she eats, she reaches a cup and bites of food down to him, and he obediently drinks and takes the food with his lips and tongue from her fingers. At her home, she allows him to sit in a chair, though she sometimes feeds him instead of giving him utensils and a plate. It seems she's not ready to be rebellious in public with this, but he doesn't complain. For the first time in four months, he gets to help with a case; he's not going to jeopardize that.

"You're pleased," she says. "That you get to do the work you're used to."

He chews the strawberry she places in his mouth and swallows it before answering. "Yes."

She doesn't say anything else, eating and drinking with a thoughtful look on her face. He's tempted to ask her why she did it, but he's reasonably certain he knows the answer. He knows that on some level she is trying. She probably never really had reason to question the order of society before him. She'd never been so fascinated by a slave before. If she had questioned it, she'd pushed it aside. Now, he thought, he'd brought it to the surface.

He is still musing on the new turn of events as they left the restaurant. Doubtless she'll want sex tonight. That is nothing new; she's compelled him to have sex with her several times a week over the past four months. He has it down to a science now. He's never been one to indulge in fantasies, sexual or otherwise, since his early teens. But when she pulls him to her with that look in her eyes, he's learned that letting his mind roam is the best way to deal with the situation.

Sometimes he thinks of Molly. He hadn't planned on it; he'd intended it to be a one-off to help him cope that first night this Molly had taken him. But there are moments-a kiss here, a caress there-when he lets himself pretend it is the Molly he knows. The one who loves him. He isn't sure if he should feel guilty about it or not, but he doesn't. It is a distraction, it isn't hurting anyone and it helps him get through Lady Molly's demands. It is a logical solution to an illogical problem.

The fact that he is genuinely responsive to the idea of it being Molly is one that he doesn't allow himself to think about.

"Sherlock!"

Shocked out of his thoughts by a familiar voice, Sherlock whips his head in the direction of the sound. There, 30 meters away, stands John with an assault rifle, surrounded by half a dozen armed men and women. Sherlock meets his eyes and knows in that split second what he has to do.

He pulls hard and fast against the leash, feels it jerk free from Lady Molly's slack grip, and runs.

Everything happens at once.

Lady Molly shouts to her guards to stop him: stop them.

Sherlock runs faster than he's ever run in his life, following John and the task force who've come to rescue him.

He feels the leash slapping against his legs, but can't spare the time to remove it. Every second is precious.

He hears someone order him to stop or she'd shoot. He keeps going. A bullet meant for his shoulder whizzes by. Another grazes his left arm. He keeps running. Dimly, he hears this Molly shouting not to kill him.

They're going to another part of the city, he realizes. The gate has opened in a different location. That's why John and his team have been able to slip in. How they'd found him, he has no idea.

He's been running for sixty-seven seconds when he sees them heading into an abandoned warehouse. He feels as though his lungs are going to burst, but he keeps going. Behind him, he can hear the others. Some are within 10 meters of him. Shots are still being fired.

Just as he makes it in, a bullet hits his right shoulder. It's deep and cuts into him like a white-hot poker, and he can't suppress a shout of pain, nearly slumping to the ground. One person opens fire to hold them back while John helps him get the rest of the way inside. The door is locked and another guard rushes over.

"Hurry!" John shouts.

He scans Sherlock quickly, then picks Sherlock up and heaves him over his shoulders while the other man trains his gun on the door. They head quickly for the gate, which is glowing with violent orange light. There is pounding at the door. Gunshots.

They pass through the gate; vertigo and pain making Sherlock reel. He struggles to stay focused. A low metallic whisper ripples through the air during their passage, and they emerge. On the other side is welcoming cool night air, the smell of petrol, the familiar glow of lights: London. _His_ London.

As soon as everyone is through, John shouts for the gate to be closed. They must have figured it out, then. He can't see through the light, but he can hear sounds from the other side. More gunfire, the door being blasted open. Lady Molly's voice, calling his name, sad and desperate.

The portal is closing rapidly. There isn't enough room for anyone to try and fit through it in time. Everything goes quiet on the other side.

Then, as the last of the glow flickers and diminishes, he hears her. Her voice, still sad, is resigned but also resolute, with an echo of affection.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

The gate is gone.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice cuts through Sherlock's awareness. He glances down at him.

John raises his eyebrows. "Is there a reason you're standing outside the morgue doors instead of going in?"

His tone of voice indicates he knows the answer is yes, and that he knows perfectly well what the reason is. It doesn't take a consulting detective to know that Sherlock is hesitating because Molly is in there. And Sherlock, Mr. Has No Feelings to Speak of, is hesitant to be around Molly.

Sherlock has told him enough about what happened for John to know that Sherlock is having trouble reconciling the two Molly's. Not that he blames this one at all. After all, she's not the one that… well, forced him to be her slave. Including sex. Sex that Sherlock didn't want, let alone want to get any sort of pleasure out of. John's honestly not sure which of the two facts bothers his best friend the most; being forced to have sex, or the fact that he physically enjoyed it.

The problem is that even Sherlock, one of the most rational and clear-headed of men, can't see this Molly without seeing the other one, to an extent. Somehow, though, John doesn't even think that bit is the whole story. There's something Sherlock hasn't told him; something that he's keeping locked up tight in that mind of his. John isn't pushing, though. Sherlock will tell him if and when he's ready.

Sherlock has been back for two weeks now, and whatever exactly it is, it's causing a lot of tension and making Molly upset and hurt. She doesn't know any of the particulars of Sherlock's captivity. All she knows is that a man who told her she counted, who told her she was his friend, has shut himself away from her. Something is going to break soon. John can feel it.

When they go in the morgue, Sherlock coolly but politely asks to see the body. Then he wants to do some lab work. The three of them have just settled down on stools in the lab when John gets a text from Mary.

He gets up after reading it, causing Sherlock to look at him. "Where are you going?"

"Mary needs me. Nothing I can do with this bit anyways, so I'll see you later."

"But-" Sherlock begins.

"Later, Sherlock," John says. His eyes flick to Molly as if to say _talk to her._ Sherlock looks faintly uneasy.

John shakes his head and tells Molly bye. Perhaps, he thinks, this came at the right time.

Silence fills the lab. The weight of it presses down on Molly until she can't stand it anymore.

"Why are you angry with me?"

Sherlock's head jerks up in surprise. "I'm not."

"Then why have you been avoiding me since you got back?"And don't say you haven't been," she adds as he opens his mouth. "I may not be a consulting detective but I know when I'm being avoided."

He sighs. He knows it's not fair to her. He needs to move past it. But it's not just a question of what that other Molly did; what she made him do. There's something else, something that he hasn't wanted to examine and still doesn't.

As he tries to decide how to respond, Molly speaks again. "What happened to you, those four months you were gone?"

He swallows hard. Molly gets up from her stool and moves to stand closer to him, though still maintaining a distance. "Greg said you were in some kind of alternate universe. That everything was different. He wouldn't tell me anything else; said it was confidential police information. But it was something bad, wasn't it?"

Sherlock struggles to meet her gaze.

"We were all…different there, weren't we?" Molly asks. "But we were there. Other versions of ourselves."

He wants to stop her, but he can't. There is a disconnect between his brain and his mouth and all he can do is listen, wishing for the first time that Molly was not so clever.

"She did something to you, didn't she?" Molly says quietly. "This other me. What did she do, Sherlock?"

He glances down. He can't look at her. He doesn't know how to tell her that this other version of her stepped across the threshold between right and wrong and that he was her slave in every sense of the word for four months. Or that…

"Sherlock, if you're not ready to tell me, just say so. But please say something. Anything is better than me not knowing."

The laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It is a dark, joyless laugh. Finally he's able to meet her gaze.

"There was a time I'd have thought the same thing," he says softly. "Now…I'm not so certain."

"Tell me what's wrong," she says, voice soft and earnest, and he closes his eyes, hearing the echo of two and a half years earlier when she said those exact words to him.

Just before she risked her career to save his life and carried his secret for all that time.

He opens his eyes and looks into hers.

"I didn't exist in that world," Sherlock says. "But you did."

Something in his tone sets off alarm bells in her head.

She stares at him. "Tell me, Sherlock. Please."

And he does.

Not everything. Because… he can't. He can't give her explicit details. Well, he _could_: it's all there locked away in the Mind Palace. He can't bring himself to delete it. It's too monumental; too extraordinary, regardless of how horrible it mostly was.

But to look at Molly Hooper, _this_ Molly Hooper, and tell her the explicit details of exactly what her other self made him do… he can't bring himself to.

So he tells her the basics; that he was captured in this world where women ruled and men were slaves and breeders and serviced women. And that this other Molly had chosen him to be her slave and was rather unhappy when he wasn't interested in being submissive. And that she'd finally threatened John to get him to cooperate.

He stops after that. Molly's face has gotten progressively paler since he began. When he stops, she looks devoid of color. Her eyes are wide and staring at him in horror.

"You mean…she…"

The look on his face is all the answer she needs.

"Oh, my God," Molly says. She's shaking. Her thoughts are so jumbled she doesn't know where to begin to try and sort them out. A rush of emotions fills her: anger, pity, and a crushing irrational shame. No wonder Sherlock hasn't wanted to be around her. He just spent four months being held captive and raped by this other Molly. She feels dirty and sick.

She knows, she _knows_ it wasn't her. But it was her, too, in a way, and he…she…

"I…I'm sorry…"

"Molly," he says, but she shakes her head.

She can't face him right now. How can he even bear to be in the same room with her? She has to…

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, choking back a sob, and runs.

A week later, Molly is in her sitting room, aimlessly flicking channels from one crap show to another. But the telly isn't enough to keep her distracted. Nothing is.

She'd called Mike Stamford after leaving the lab, telling him she'd suddenly taken very ill. She hasn't been back to work since. She can't bring herself to face Sherlock yet.

It is a wonder he didn't hate the sight of her now, Molly thinks, holding back tears. She doesn't know what to do. Her heart hurts for him, that this other Molly had forced herself on him, held him captive, made him her slave. And it hurts for her, because now her friendship with him is probably ruined.

She is started by the knock on her door. The pizza. She isn't very hungry but she needs to eat something. She hurries to get her cash to pay and opens the door.

Sherlock stands on the other side, holding her pizza in one hand.

Molly stares at him, biting her lower lip and eyes wide.

"I told him I'd bring it up to you," Sherlock says.

Molly can only nod. "Right. Well, thank you."

He cocks his head. "This is the part where you invite me in, Molly."

"Oh. Yes. Of course. Please," she says, stepping aside for him to enter.

Sherlock sets her pizza on the worktop while she closes the door and puts her money down on the end table. As she moves into the sitting room, he strides in and stands directly in front of her.

"You've been avoiding me," he says.

She nods. "I couldn't… I didn't think you'd want to be around me after…"

"That wasn't all," he says. "That wasn't everything that happened."

Molly exhales with a shudder.

"There were times when I was with…her…that I thought of you. I pretended she was you," he says suddenly.

Molly's mouth gapes open. "You… pretended…why?"

He glances down, then takes a deep breath and meets her eyes. "Because it was easier for me to bear it that way. Because I wanted to pretend it was something I wanted, not something that was being forced on me."

"Something you wanted? But-"

"You've spent the past week imagining that I must hate the sight of you, if not hate _you._ Feeling irrational guilt over what other Molly did. You aren't her, Molly. You have nothing to feel guilty about, or ashamed of. All you have ever done for me is be kind to me, and be my friend when I'd done nothing to deserve it." He glanced away briefly, then looked at her again.

"It's true that I needed some time to…disassociate the two of you and come to terms with what happened. I still haven't fully processed it all. But I couldn't let you go another day without knowing the truth. It isn't just because of what she did. It's because of what _I_ did."

"I didn't want to look at why I wanted to pretend so much with her. Logically, though, I knew I had to. I had to admit the truth: that my captivity, as terrible as it was, brought all the feelings for you I've suppressed to the surface. And I find myself unwilling and unable to put them back into a box."

Molly starts trembling. "You wanted to pretend because… you have feelings for me."

He nods.

"More…than friendship."

He nods again.

"Fuck me," she says in astonishment, then claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh, god. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"

She stops her horrified rambling apology when Sherlock chuckles.

"I know what you meant, Molly," he says softly.

She looks down, suddenly feeling bashful. He does the same, and they stand that way for a moment before Molly looks at him again.

"Got any cases right now?"

He shakes his head.

"Would you like to help me eat this pizza?" Molly asks with a hopeful smile.

He smiles back faintly. "Pepperoni and feta cheese?"

"Yes."

"I am a bit hungry; I suppose pizza is as good a thing as any to eat," he says.

"OK," she says, her smile bigger and brighter now.

Just before they reach the kitchen, he puts a hand on her arm. She glances at him quizzically, then with a sudden flash of insight understands the look in his eyes.

She briefly covers his hand with one of hers and squeezes. "It's fine, Sherlock," she tells him softly. "We'll get there."

Sherlock stares at her, realizing once again that he has underestimated Molly Hooper. _His_ Molly Hooper.

So happy and thankful is he that he's home, that he's with his Molly, that before he can stop himself by overthinking it, he leans in and kisses her cheek.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he says softly.

"For what?"

He smiles again, more than before.

"For being _you_."


End file.
